


Held Captive

by FieryPen37



Series: Held Captive [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Battle, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Conversations, Daenerys is a badass, Dragons, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, I REGRET NOTHING, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow knows something, No White Walkers, Passionate Sex, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but he has no idea, epic (hopefully), semi-rough sex, then resolved sexual tension, un-betaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-01-07 08:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 42
Words: 160,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12229134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: Upon landing in Westeros, Daenerys makes a pact with the King in the North, with interesting results.Or, in which Robb lives as King in the North and Jon is given to Daenerys as a hostage of war.**Winner of 2017 Jonerys Fanfiction Award for Best Action**





	1. Part 1

Held Captive

 

Part I

 

"As King in the North, I accept your terms, but I have conditions of my own," he said, every inch the stern, moral man her Hand spoke of. Daenerys leaned forward in her silver's saddle, faintly amused. Here, outside The Twins, began the meeting of the Houses Targaryen and Stark, the first in a generation.

The sky was overcast, a few flurries of snow hinting at the late season. Behind her, stood rank upon rank of Unsullied, back further still, there was the hordes of Dothraki under the command of her bloodrider Rakharo. Her dragons were nowhere in sight, but their shadows had darkened the North since her landing a fortnight since. Daenerys glanced at her right. Her Hand Tyrion Lannister sat astride his bay courser, scarred face implacable. To her left, the Lady Melisandre sat at ease, the ruby at her throat pulsing like a heartbeat. Likewise, the King in the North was flanked on one side by a great bear of a man, glowering under his bushy eyebrows. On the other sat a large armored woman with cropped blond hair. Like pieces on a _cyvasse_ board, the King in the North's host stood behind him, all the might of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale.

"This is not a negotiation, my _lord_. This a surrender. I will hold your brother as hostage to ensure your obedience, just as your father Lord Eddard Stark did to ensure the Greyjoy's. Give him to me, and I will be on my way. I have yet more pretenders to _silence_ ," she said, holding his gaze. The so-called king's handsome face hardened. He held his temper, though, to his credit.

"I want your word that you will treat him well."

"I am not a tyrant. Nor am I cruel. You may ask any who have followed me across the sea. Your brother will be treated as a prince and honored guest in my service, provided you remember _your_ sworn word."

"The North Remembers," the king said, his bearded face twisted into a bitter smile.

Daenerys felt a twinge of sympathy. Tyrion had also told her the cruelty his father, nephew, and sister had wrought on the king's captive sister Sansa, and he powerless to stop it. In a gentler tone, she said: "It is a bitter draught to swallow, but as with any tonic, you will be the better for it. My assurances that I am not my enemies will mean little to you. A raven scroll could be coerced, after all, or his wounds tended prior to any meeting. As such, you may send a representative at any time to my camp under flag of truce. They may see with their own eyes that your brother is well treated." A fugitive emotion flickered across the king's face, gone too quickly for her to decipher.

"Thank you, Your Grace," he said thickly.

Turning to the woman, he gave a curt nod. The woman reined her horse around and cantered toward the tent bearing the Stark's direwolf banner. Two figures emerged, mounted, and rode back to their meeting place. He rode well, she thought. It would help bolster his status among the Dothraki that he was a rider. They pulled up in a line, and a long look passed between the brothers. It was on her tongue to offer a private goodbye, but she thought better of it. She was to seem fair, but not weak.

"Good to see you again, Bastard of Winterfell," Tyrion said with a smile. Daenerys inwardly flinched at the harsh wording, but Jon Snow just smirked. He was a comely lad too, and of an age as herself.

"And you as well, Dwarf of Casterly Rock," he said, his words softened by a northern burr.

"Remember your word, Your Grace," said Robb Stark, King in the North. Anger flashed quick and hot. _After all my assurances and good graces, he_ still _questions me?_ Her silver pranced beneath her, sensing the tightening of reins.

"Once I contend with the Lannister pretender on the Iron Throne, and the Targaryen pretender in Dorne, I will have plenty of time and resources to turn my forces North. Dragons can fly fast, and no fortress can stand against them. Ask Harren the Black if you have any doubts, Stark," Daenerys snarled. She slewed her silver to one side and touched her heels to her sides. The horse leapt into a smooth gallop, and Daenerys' entourage fell behind her.

As soon as her feet touched the ground, she issued a flurry of commands to break camp and begin the march south. The plan she agreed upon with Tyrion was to march the Unsullied to take the Rock, the seat of the Westerlands. Meanwhile her allies Asha Greyjoy and Olenna Tyrell would secure the Reach. A so-called Aegon Targaryen armed with the Golden Company and Second Sons had consolidated Dorne and taken Storm's End. The rest of the Stromlands fought for their lives and lands. The real test would be to meet him with her dragons. _We will test your mettle, Pretender. If you lie, my children will roast you alive._ Daenerys chose not to contemplate what future awaited her if her dragons accepted Aegon.

The rest of the day was spent in the saddle at the head of the column with her Queensguard and bloodriders. Faintly, on the very edges of her perception, she felt Drogon. Her bond with him was the strongest, though if they were within a league, she could sense Rheagal and Viserion. On the ground, travel was frustratingly slow. Her Dothraki had ridden ahead to scout for grazing lands and any of hint of an oncoming Lannister host. Mentally, she composed a list of raven scrolls to send once they made camp. A batch to the lords of the Vale and Riverlands of King Robb's surrender, another to Grey Worm in the Westerlands, another to --Jorah Mormont nudged his dun charger to Daenerys' stirrup.

" _Khaleesi_ , may I speak with you?" he asked, deep voice tentative. _As well he should be_ , she thought. It had been a rocky road to reconciliation between them, from the fighting pits of Mereen to the shores of Westeros.

"Has the Lord Commander given you leave to abandon your post?" she asked tartly. Ser Barristan commanded her Queensguard, and Ser Jorah's post was guarding their northern captive.

"Aye, Your Grace," he said.

"Then say on," she replied. He hesitated, scratching his stubbled chin. She mastered her irritation with some effort, waiting for him to speak.

"Why . . . why is it you chose the bastard as your captive?"

Daenerys gave him a narrow look.

"My options were limited. Sansa Stark hasn't been seen since Joffery Baratheon's murder at his wedding. No one has seen hide or hair of Arya Stark since her father's murder. Brandon Stark was last seen riding a _snow bear_ north of the Wall, and Rickon Stark is a boy of twelve."

"A boy is more malleable than a man, and trueborn at that," he pointed out. Daenerys frowned. The truth was she had not wanted to separate the crying Rickon from his mother. The boy had lost his father, a brother, and both of his sisters.

"Bastard or no, he is a close confidante to Robb Stark. He was released from his Night's Watch vows by your own father, if I remember correctly. The men of the North respect him. He is useful to me," she said. Thoughts of Jon Snow lingered in the back of her mind until they made camp that night, on the banks of the Green Fork.

Westeros brimmed with lovely countryside, she thought with a possessive sort of pride. The towering needled trees gave way to gently rolling hills, the tips of the yellowed grasses clinging to their former green. Mills dotted the riverside, the occasional farm or holdfast hedged close to the kingsroad. For their part, the smallfolk watched from windows. The harvest waited for no man, though, and more than once farmer and plow-horse alike goggled at the sight of their host. The water was deep and rich with silt, rushes dense with foliage. Several of her Unsullied waded with fishing spears to catch their supper. The Dothraki were under strict orders to leave the smallfolk be. 

Tyrion, her lieutenants, bloodriders and Queensguard met for a meal in her tent: scant travel fare of hard cheese, stale bread, and runny stew. Sundry problems were brought forth, solved or tabled. It was another change of watch before Daenerys had a moment of privacy and an abbreviated bath. The air was chilled despite the brazier; Daenerys found herself missing the heat of the Bay of Dragons. She tightened the sash of her tunic, padding on stockinged feet around her tent, restless.

"Bring Jon Snow to me," she told Missandei. The girl made no comment, only bowed and stepped outside with her usual quiet grace.

He was the North personified, she thought as he stood attention in the doorway of her tent. The furs on his shoulders, the Stark direwolves etched on his gorget, the fine leathers, garbed over a lean, grim figure. He lacked the look of the Riverlands, there was no red in his hair, but his eyes were the Stark grey. So dark a grey they looked black, almost sable. _A bit short_ , she thought with some amusement. He would have come to Drogo's shoulder. Daenerys paced around him, like a horse trader appraising a potential purchase.

"You may go, Missandei, Ser Barristan."

"Your Grace--"

"Has he been searched for weapons, Ser Barristan?"

"Of course, but--"

"And is he not honor-bound to keep peace brokered between his brother and myself?"

"He is, Your Grace, but--"

"You may go, Ser Barristan," she said gently, "I am not without protection." Almost as if on cue, Drogon roared. Close by. Jon Snow did not flinch. Northmen were brave. The old knight and her serving girl left without further comment.

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the faraway sounds of camp life: the murmur of conversation, the tramping of shod horses, the occasional clatter of armor or crookery. Daenerys poured two cups of warmed summerwine. The sweet warmth slid down her throat and settled in her belly, deeply comforting. She took her ease on her chair, crossing her ankles on the lip of her table. Jon Snow stood at attention, his gaze steady on her. No mistaking him for a servant, or meek. There was a pleasant directness to his regard, lacking either malice or warmth. She held his gaze and took a long swallow.

"It is customary to kneel in the presence of a queen," she said, offhand. He shrugged.

"Robb would say that since he is king, I am a prince and need not follow such rules," he said. She chose to not mention that line of succession does not apply to bastards.

"And what would you say?" Again the shrug, as laconic as his personality.

"I would say I have the blood of North," he said. She arched a brow, considering.

"I will insist on the niceties in front of others, but since we are alone at the moment, I will allow the insult to slide." Those sable eyes, quite arresting she thought, widened a bit at that. _Finally, a glimmer of temperament._

"I mean no offense, my lady," he said. Daenerys rankled at the casual address, but it would not do to execute her hostage on the first night for simple mistakes in etiquette. She was accustomed to a certain amount of sycophancy, awe, hostility, or covetousness, but with Jon Snow, there was none. Only a wary sort of regard, direct, intent, and honest.

"Sit, Jon Snow, before your trip over your own tongue," she said, gesturing to the chair opposite her. He sat, back straight, without so much as loosening his cloak. She chose to speak plainly.

"I mean to show you hospitality, and set you at ease. It is not an easy thing to find your place among a new people. I would know."

"You would, my la--I mean, Your Grace?" He sipped the wine, made a moue of distaste, and set it aside. Northern folk preferred sterner stuff. Daenerys refilled her own cup and sank back.

"Yes," she said, sipping her wine.

When she is not forthcoming, Jon Snow cleared his throat, studying the map of Westeros on the table. The stone figures marking troop movements had been hidden.

"You've seen much of the world, Your Grace," he said, tracing an idle finger along the roseroad.

"Yes. Not by choice. The Usurper's assassins had my brother and I running for our lives across Essos for most of my childhood."

"Still, I have only seen the North." His tone was wistful, and she remembered he'd been barely ten-and-six when he rode north to take the black.

"North of the Wall, as well, as a man of the Night's Watch. A thing few can say," she said with a toast of her cup. His smile looked more like a grimace.

"Aye," he said. The brazier crackled. This silence held a comfortable savor to it. Jon Snow, for all his northern reticence, had an easy-going way to him. 

"Will you burn me alive, Your Grace?" That startled her out of the dreamy, wine-softened contemplation.

" _What_?" He heard the sharpness in her tone, and swallowed hard, sweat dewed on his brow.

"When we left the Twins, you told Robb to remember Harren the Black. He was burned alive. Aegon the Conqueror burned him alive in his own castle." Daenerys adjusted in her seat, stretching her ankles out on the ground. _Daughter of the Mad King_ , the words rang unpleasantly in her head.

"The point of a hostage is to ensure the family's obedience. If they disobey, they do so at the expense of the one held," she said, speaking with slow care. Jon Snow relaxed a bit, as if reassured.

"Robb will keep his word, at any cost. He is like Father in that."

"Every man and woman I have talked to on this continent speak highly of your father. I wish I could have met him," Daenerys said, with utmost sincerity. He fiddled with the edge of the map.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"I do not burn people I dislike. I am not my father. What happened to your family at the hands of the Lannisters was a travesty. That is how the world has always been. A wheel with spokes, first one family on top, then another, crushing those beneath it. On and on it goes, never stopping. I intend to _break_ that wheel, and leave the world a better place than I found it."  Passion colored her voice, leaning forward toward him. She wanted him to _understand_.

"That is a good dream, Your Grace," he said. Daenerys sighed. She didn't want him to be a sycophant, saying what he thought she wanted to hear for fear she would burn him alive if he displeased her.

"Yes," she said. Their eyes met and held, and she felt a faint thrill at being under such focused attention. A novel one, she had not felt such since Drogo's pyre burned. There had been a fling during her time in Mereen, the sellsword Daario Naharis, but even that brief affair was years ago.

"Ser Barristan!" she shouted.

Not missing a beat, the knight shouldered into the tent, flakes of snow in his white hair and on his cloak, completely unrepentant. He hadn't actually disobeyed her orders. Barristan Selmy was one to obey the letter of the law. Daenerys rose and Jon Snow leapt to his feet. Without breaking Snow's gaze, she said: "Take our guest to his tent. He is weary after today's ride." Snow's face was inscrutable, a useful trick for a bastard, she supposed. She wondered what her measure was in his eyes. A conqueror? A tyrant? A fool?

"We will speak again soon, Jon Snow."

"Dream sweetly, Your Grace," he said, with a deep bow. Oddly touched, she watched him go, swallowed by the dark. She blinked, turning to Ser Barristan.

"Once you've finished, send Lady Melisandre to me."

Daenerys moved to the sideboard and splashed cold water on her face, dragging in deep breaths to clear her head. She stoked the brazier, watching the golden flames leap and dance. The heat seeped into her bones. Her eyes burned and she turned away, longing to collapse in her sleeping furs. Weariness ached in her bones, but she felt restless, out of sorts.

"The Lord of Light shine upon you, Your Grace," Melisandre said, her words smoothed by her musical accent.

"And you as well, Lady," Daenerys said, distracted. She resumed her pacing.

"How may I serve you?"

"Tell me again," Daenerys commanded. Melisandre's smooth face remained impassive, though Daenerys thought she saw a flicker of irritation dart across her ageless features.

"Your Grace, my visions have not changed. I've looked into the flames at every dawn and every dusk since your landing in Westeros."

"You said you could see the future in the flames. You said your god whispered to you."

"The Lord of Light gives me only glimpses of what could be. Or glimpses of what was, or is now. The Lord's signs never lie, but it is another matter to interpret them." Daenerys scowled. _A neat way of saying 'I have no clue, Your Grace.'_ _The red priestess is more trouble than she's worth._

"Nothing? No hints of any battle with the Lannisters? Or the Targaryen pretender?"

"Nothing more than I saw as we sailed on the _Queen's Revenge_."

Daenerys clenched her jaw, her eyes falling to the map on the table. By the time they reached Harrenhal, Cersei Lannister would have had time to muster her banners and send them north. It was a question of where, and when. Her Hand was adamant against her scouting ahead with Drogon, without a host to protect her. Daenerys groped for her temper.

"As Queen, I will allow you to worship as you wish, with the exception of no human sacrifice. R'hllor will be starved for blood in Westeros. I told you that when Drogo's pyre still smoldered and my children clung to me." Melisandre nodded, unperturbed.

"Yes, Your Grace. I understand your conditions." She spread her lovely, long-fingered hands.

"I wish I had better news for you, Your Grace."

Daenerys muttered a curse. Speaking with Melisandre always gave her a stomachache, as if she'd supped on dragon peppers and ale.

"Tell me again, what you have seen." Maybe she could parse meaning out of the jumbled images. Obedient, Melisandre folded her hands and cleared her throat.

"In the nightfire, the Lord showed me a blue rose in a wall of ice. A mummer's dragon. A white wolf with the eyes of a man. Green flames consuming a seven-pointed star."

"And a banner rent almost in two, but you could not make out the sigil," Daenerys finished. She heaved a sigh. One of the last at least, could be puzzled out. Olenna Tyrell told her of how Cersei had set the Sept of Baelor ablaze with wildfire, extinguishing one of the great houses of Westeros in the form of Margery and Loras Tyrell--her grandchildren. The other signs made no more sense than when Melisandre first told her of them. Daenerys gave a brief laugh, facing her.

"Lord Tyrion said why are the gods such cryptic little shits? I have to agree with him."

"The Lord's plan will be revealed in good time. You must have faith," Melisandre said, dutiful to the last.

"Yes. You may leave me, my lady. Prepare for tomorrow's ride. As you say, 'the night is dark and full of terrors.'"

 


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire and Blood

Part II

 

 

"Hurry and finish!" she snapped. Ser Jorah fumbled with the last fastening of her armor, styled in her house's colors of scarlet and black. For ease of movement, she wore only a breastplate, gauntlets, and helm, her Queensguard and Hand both had begged for that much.

At last, after over a week of slogging through mud, sleet and an early snow, her army had reached the plains and marshes surrounding Harrenhal. The Lannisters must have ridden all night, for the Dothraki scouts had found nothing the night before. Outside her tent, the camp seethed. It was not entirely a surprise, each of her men had slept in their armor within reach of their weapons. Shouts rang out in Dothraki, Valyrian, Ghischari, and the Common Tongue.

"Archers! Archers gather! Mount up!" Daenerys recognized Bakhaqqo's gravelly voice ordering the Dothraki mounted archers.

"Ready, _khaleesi_. Fly fast," Ser Jorah said with a wry smile.

"Fight well, Ser Jorah," she said, choked. At last, the first battle for Westeros!

Striding from her tent, she encountered Jon Snow, looking lost. No doubt he was accustomed to riding into battle. Daenerys closed the distance between them.

"Stay with the rear guard. I will not have your brother rise up against me because some northern fool wanted to see battle," she said, softening the words with a smile.

Now she saw a glimmer of awe in his eyes, and she preened a bit. The black steel chased with enamel in red flames along her shoulders, surrounding the red three-headed dragon on her breastplate was rather striking. Her favorite part was the helm, crowned with three spears of stone: obsidian, jade, and milky quartz.

"I will do as you say," he said, and the words felt as strong as an oath. She nodded.

"Drogon! _Drogon_! _Naejot nyke_!" she shouted into the dawn, as alarm bells pealed and horns blew. A deafening answering roar shattered the sky, echoed by two more. Her children came. Within moments, the ground shuddered beneath their feet.

"Come, Jon Snow, and witness a wonder few every hoped to see!" she said, loping toward the sounds of snarling and flapping, Snow at her heels.

Drogon crouched, black and menacing, smoke curling from his lips. Black scales glittering in the wan morning light, red eyes alight and frighteningly intelligent, and the sheer _size_ of him . . . he was fearsome to behold. Jon Snow's stunned expression made her laugh, a burst of sound around the knot of tension in her throat. Daenerys approached Drogon, feeling the eagerness quivering through him, to fly, to burn, to _kill_. She climbed up the spikes along his neck to her seat between his wings, clumsy with the new encumbrance of her armor. His hard scales radiated warmth against the chill of the morning, to an almost uncomfortable degree.

" _Soves!"_ With that, Drogon gathered his wings and with a powerful thrust of his legs, they were airborne. Exhilaration filled her at the rush of wind through her ears, whistling through the helm.

Several loud, ponderous flaps of Drogon's wings and they circled the camp, arranged in neat rings. The Lannister host was a dark mass marching from the ruins of Harrenhal--a large host, though she could not estimate their number. On the western horizon, she could see a silver glimmer of water, God's Eye Lake. The Dothraki were forming a ragged line. The goal was for the cavalry to surround the enemy forces, cut off their escape to allow the Unsullied to decimate their infantry. Already her face felt numb with cold. Daenerys leaned forward and to the left, Drogon climbed higher in the frigid air, banking left.

As the Lannister host grew closer, she could make out sigils. The crossed swords of House Ryyker, the blue swordfish of House Bar Emmon, and of course, the golden lion of Lannister. The Dothraki advanced, fluid and smooth for a host of that size. Near the rear of the enemy host, she saw the jagged cloud of arrows. Men and horses fell. Drogon roared, the tenor of his thoughts presenting the image of fire. A portion of the left flank broke off, splintered by the Dothraki charge.

"Let us show them the consequences of pulling a dragon's tail. _Idakos_!" Daenerys said, leaning forward.

Drogon dove, so swift that Daenerys lifted from his back by a fraction. Heart in her throat, she clung to his spikes, squeezing his ridged back with her legs. The ground loomed, terrifyingly close. Daenerys cried out in exhilaration, smiling to the sky. There was fear, but it was swallowed whole by the terrible _joy_ of flight, an echo she felt from the dragon beneath her. Drogon flared his wings, and Daenerys felt the strain in his wing and chest muscles as he fought the pull of the earth. The air pressed down on her as they smoothed out of the dive. Daenerys leaned into the turn, feeling his body shifting with the wind toward the Lannisters' fleeing horses.

" _Dracarys_!" she shouted into the wind.

Fire, black-tinged and blisteringly hot, burst from her dragon's mouth. The men and horses in their path had one breath left to scream, thin and wrenching, before the flames consumed them. A line of fire cut as sure as a sword through the line. Drogon sailed through the plume of smoke; Daenerys buffeted by the heat and stink of the battle below. Leaning forward, she urged Drogon higher. Inwardly, he fought her, longing to lunge after the fleeing horses and _feast_.

From her vantage point, she could see the main body of the Lannister force was in shambles. Those that could fled toward Harrenhal--Viserion and Rheagal flew in pursuit. Drogon roared in outrage that his brothers chased _his_ prey.

"Go, then. But be quick about it. I must be there to accept their surrender--if there any left alive," she said.

In her mind's eye when she and Drogon battled, it was as if she held a tether between them, and as he bucked her control, the line burned hotter. It felt as her hand bore the mark of holding so long. She swiped her wind-numbed face, a smear of blood came away from her nose. Controlling a dragon was no easy thing. Drogon scorched the fleeing company; she saw their eyes wide with fear, smelled their burned flesh, saw with her own eyes as Viserion pinned a knight and tore his body in half. The sight filled her with a sick horror. Burning was quick, merciful. To be eaten alive . . . After that, she commanded they eat only the horses. Her children feasted.

"Enough! Back to camp!" Defiant, Drogon tore another bloody chunk of a dead destrier, viscera hanging from his jagged teeth.

"Now!" she said, accompanying the words with a yank on the mental leash. Her children took wing with no further protest. They always were more malleable when full.

Back at camp, Drogon landed and she dismounted. His great head swiveled to look at her with his bright red eye. Hunger gnawed at her bones, it felt as if she hadn't eaten in days. Weariness and hunger were the cost of riding her dragons. Daenerys stroked the bony ridge above his eye, scratching the crown of horns.

"Yes, you've done well, darling," she said in an indulgent tone, "perhaps fishing for supper, hmm?" A low rumble answered her, and he butted her shoulder gently. He took off, the force of his wingbeats nearly bowling her over.

Rakharo dismounted his black, grinning. Clad in leather and furs, she noted a gash down his right arm, the blood gleaming in the pale sunshine. He swaggered, unbothered by the wound. Along the edge of his saddle were five helms, three dented and bloodied. Instead of braids, she supposed her Dothraki would collect armor from their fallen foes.

"A good battle, blood of my blood!" he said in Dothraki, "Many men in steel dresses learned what it is to dance with an _arakh_." Her heart warmed. Of all the Dothraki, Rakharo seemed almost gentle, with a ready grin.

"Yes, my blood. A great victory. Pyres must be built for our dead. Will you sacrifice to the Great Stallion tonight?" she asked.

They were at the edge of camp, she could see the milling men, their commanders shouting orders in half a dozen languages. Rakharo's black trailed after them, without needing a command.

"Yes, and we shall drink to the honor of our khaleesi!" he said, shaking his braid over his shoulder. It fell to his elbow now. When she met him, it had been a stubby tail at the nape of his neck.

"Do my Queensguard hold any captives?" At his blank look, she said, "Slaves? Gifts for me?" His expression cleared.

"Yes khaleesi. Though it was the boy of the Wolf Tent who took them."

"The Wolf Tent? Jon Snow?" she said slowly. Rakharo nodded. _I'd better have answers, and fast once I get my hands on him!_

 

Daenerys strode into her tent, implacable as death. She shouldered past Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah, silencing their explanations with a glare. Anger burned through her veins, hot and quick. It filled her belly, her lungs until she felt she could breathe fire herself.

Jon Snow, being tended for a wound along his calf by Missandei, leapt to his feet at the sight of her. Daenerys shoved him, hard. He staggered back, knocking over a folding table with Missandei's bandaging supplies. Her hands shook with the force of emotion. Snow kept his feet, nimble as a cat. She seized the leather straps crisscrossing his chest securing his cloak and yanked him nose to nose with her.

"Who am I?" she said. Snow's eyes were wide, lips moving without uttering a sound.

"Wha--?"

"Who _am_ I?" she repeated. Comprehension dawned, and a muscle fired in his jaw.

"Daenerys Targaryen." Her name sounded exotic on his tongue.

"And who are you?"

"Jon Snow. Your captive."

"My _guest_ ," she corrected, "And what was the _one_ command I gave you?"

"Stay with the rear guard."

"And what did you do?"

"I found a sword and a horse and rode with Rakharo. I captured Kevan Lannister and Lord Stokeworth. I hamstrung his horse. Lannister's horse fell on both of them. It was the fastest way to end the battle," he said, almost sullen. Daenerys was thankful for the confines of her helm concealing her startled expression. Kevan Lannister, former Hand of the King, Cersei's own uncle. Stokeworth also added many swords and banners to the Lannister cause.

" _How_ did this happen, Ser Jorah?" Daenerys cocked her head, not relinquishing her grip on Snow, not breaking his gaze. His blood was still hot from battle, she could see it in his dilated pupils, feel the thunder of his heartbeat under her hands. The heat of him reminded her of her dragons, leashed power.

"I must beg your pardon, Your Grace. Our formation broke and when next I looked--"

"Robb Stark's brother _slipped_ through your fingers." Her tone could flay flesh from bone. A quick glance found the knight looking as if he wanted to melt through the floor.

Daenerys released her grip on Snow. Perhaps some of her dragons' ferocity rubbed off on her. Jon Snow watched her warily, dark curls hanging in his eyes, lips parted. Daenerys suppressed the wild wish to taste the sweat dewed on his temple.

"Show me my prisoners. Snow, you will not ride into battle again. That is, unless you wish to forswear your oaths to your brother and swear your sword to me," she said with an arched brow. Jon Snow scowled.

"No, Your Grace," he said.

"I thought not."

 

Kevan Lannister sat on the floor of the empty tent, smirched with dirt and blood, guzzling water from the skin offered him. _No doubt he thinks this will be the last drink we offer._ Stokeworth, for his part, cowered, nursing the wound to his thigh. Daenerys removed her helm, smoothing her sweat-damp braids.

"Rise, Ser Kevan," she said. With the help of one of her men-at-arms, Ser Kevan staggered to his feet.

"Do what you will with me, foreign bitch," he snarled. _Lion indeed,_ she thought.

"Peace, Ser! You will show the queen the proper respect!" Ser Barristan said, his grip white-knuckled on his sword.

"With nothing but cockless killers, savages, traitors, and kinslayers in your service, what am I to think of you?" he said. Tyrion had spared no detail of his involvement with Tywin's death, and by all accounts, Kevan was lost without his brother. Daenerys straightened to her full height.

"What you think means little and less to me, Ser. Your only value is your name," she said in a quiet voice. Ser Kevan's face twisted into an approximation of a smile.

"You won't get anything for me. I'm expendable to Cersei. Fine, better than living in the world she's building--all backstabbers and whoresons. Your savages cut down my sons. Boys of fifteen. Good boys both--" his voice broke. Daenerys felt the faintest twinge of sympathy. War or no, children should not suffer for their parents' sins.

"I offered your niece terms of peace when I landed on Dragonstone. I have the numbers; I have three grown dragons--this is not a war she can win. She killed my messenger, sent his head to me in a box. There is death and betrayal on both sides, Ser Kevan. Write your niece. We will see if there is use for you yet," she said, sweeping out of the tent, Unsullied standing guard.

"Ser Barristan, we have a maester, yes?" A calculated move, maester and septon were ubiquitous in Westeros. Something familiar might coax them to speak.

"We do, newly chained from Oldtown. Maester Jaron," he said.

"Send him to tend their wounds and write their scrolls. Come, I need to see the field and assess our losses."

Ser Barristan foisted a hard heel of bread and a skin of watered wine on her as her silver was saddled. The food was welcome; it settled her stomach as she rode the battlefield. Amongst the churned earth, a swath of dead men and horses lay in bloody repose. Drogon's fire cut through the plain in a long black scar, still smoldering in places and dense with ash. Broken banners waved in a faint, listless breeze. Despite the late season, the air felt humid and reeked of smoke, blood, and rot, stinging in her eyes. The carrion birds picked at the dead. The Dothraki wailing was shrill in her ears as they gathered their dead on travois. Beyond them, brush and timber was gathered to build the pyres.

Daenerys' silver picked her way amongst the shattered army, her small council trailing after her. It was the easiest way to disseminate her orders. Her heart was heavy. Yes, she wanted to wreak fire and blood on her enemies, but here, on the field of her first battle, she saw men who wanted to protect their homes and families from invaders. There were no slavers here, only men who must follow their lord into battle.

"It is still the best plan. The best way to save as many as we can," Tyrion said, at her stirrup. Her answering smile was weak.

"Thank you, Tyrion. Perspective is important."

Tyrion looked out over the field, his faint smile fading to a pensive expression. A banner pole snapped, and he held his seat as his mount shied. A competent man, her Hand.

"The price of Breaking the Wheel isn't a pretty one. Though at their first blooding, this ragtag army of yours has fought quite well."

"No glory to be found for Hands?" she teased. At that, Tyrion shrugged, smirking.

"On the contrary, Your Grace. Maintaining a camp is something I'm quite familiar with. My father made me at the age of sixteen a most highborn plumber. I managed all the drains and cisterns in Casterly Rock. All the shit found its way to the sea."

"Thank the gods, then," she said, reining her silver back towards camp. Tyrion smirked.

"Take comfort in the victory, Your Grace. If my sister has any sense, once the noose tightens she will sue for peace."

"Do you think she will?" The smile fell away, and Daenerys nearly flinched at the pain in his eyes. The wounds there were deep, and had never fully healed.

"She never forgets a slight, real or imagined. She takes caution for cowardice and dissent for defiance. And she is greedy. Greedy for power, for honor, for love." *

"Let us hope your brother can speak sense to her," she said.

"What would have done with the enemy dead, Your Grace?" Ser Barristan said.

"Have Maester Jaron take a tally of the dead and any sigil they bear. Burn the bodies with rest. We move out tomorrow."

 

From astride her silver, she oversaw the retrieval of the fallen men, the coordination of their route along the kingsroad at dawn, and any preparations for the feast that night. Her strict edict was that no man among her Dothraki or Essosi over-indulge with drink--not a concern for the Unsullied. Then, a watch past noonday, she at last found herself in her tent. Missandei--bless her--had drawn a bath for her. Her joints ached, she stank of smoke, sweat, and horse, caked with dust.

"May I fetch you something else, Your Grace?" Missandei asked. Daenerys squeezed her hand.

"All I want in the world at the moment is a bath, a meal, and sleep," she said, stifling a yawn.

It was a fiddly, arduous process removing her armor. Once the straps loosened to her breastplate, Daenerys dragged in her first deep breath since she was shaken awake at dawn. The padded gambeson was damp with sweat, and she shivered as the cold wind washed over her. She hurried to the sanctuary of the bath. The tub was a lovely copper monstrosity, hinged for easier transport. Daenerys breathed a soul-deep sigh.

The water was exquisitely hot, a film of sweet-smelling oil slicking the surface. Grateful to be rid of the grime, Daenerys wrinkled her nose in distaste at the grey caste of the water once she finished washing. Missandei's soft hands unwound her braids, smoothed oil in her hair and began to patiently comb out the tangles. The comb was a lovely ivory thing, the handle carved in the shape of a rearing horse. Daenerys hummed, the delicate scrape of the comb's tines against her scalp lulling her.

"A raven came from Casterly Rock, Your Grace," Missandei said. Daenerys craned her head back to meet her eye. Backlit by the sunlight filtering through the tent wall, Missandei seemed to emit a soft glow. Her expression was relaxed. Good news then.

"Grey Worm sent a message from the siege. Ser Thorin Payne is commanding the Rock. He says the soldiers are poorly trained, but numerous." The last was said with a tinge of wry humor. Daenerys grinned. To Unsullied, especially the commander of Unsullied, _every_ soldier was poorly trained.

"I am glad he is well," she said, with a hint of teasing. Missandei's cheeks bloomed with a soft blush. Daenerys' suspicions were now confirmed regarding the flirtation between the two. Missandei finished with Daenerys' hair, squeezing her shoulder gently. The water chilled, so she rose, accepting the fur-lined robe of fine blue wool the young woman offered.

"Jon Snow is quite handsome," Missandei said with a sly glance. Daenerys' eyes flew wide and she fought her smile at her presumption.

"A bit short." That sent the two of them into giggles.

"He is a northman. They are a grim sort," Daenerys said.

She took her ease at the table as Missandei poured watered wine. There was a hint of variety to their usual travel rations--the table held a bowl of dried figs, and the stew had turnips and peppercorns. At her insistence, she ate no better than her men. As with the Dothraki people, they would starve or feast together. Each bite was delectable, her belly felt like a yawning hole. She mopped up the broth with the heel of her bread.

"I am not sure, Your Grace," Missandei said, with her usual precision of language, "I could see how he looked at you this morning." Daenerys was grateful the flush of the bath was reason enough for pinked cheeks.

"How did he look at me?" she asked, plucking up a handful of figs. Biting through the tough skin, the sweet, astringent flavor washed over her tongue. Missandei arched a brow.

"Like he was a starving man and you were a feast table. Like he wanted to devour you whole. They say the wolf's blood runs hot," she said.

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, dismissing the subject.

Any wish for a watch of sleep was dismissed when a runner came to her tent from Kevarro, one of her bloodriders. A brawl had broken out amongst the Dothraki that needed her intercession. Dothraki were most boisterous in victory, she knew. Only a command from their _khaleesi_ would settle them. Hurriedly, she dressed in leathers and a sweeping grey cloak in the Westerosi style, brooched at one shoulder with her three-headed dragon pin, the silver chain draped across her torso. While her silver was tacked up, there was time for Missandei to twine her silver hair in a single loose braid; it swung like a bell rope down her back. Loose hair for a khaleesi was considered shameful among the Dothraki. 

In the late autumn sunshine, the sky was cloudless, air crisp even through the multitude of scents emanating from camp. She swung up into her saddle, settling the fall of her cloak. The atmosphere amongst the milling men at the center of camp was productive, swaggering even. Victory had everyone in a fine mood. To a man, they all stopped their work to bow as she passed, some calling ' _Mhysa'_ or ' _Khaleesi_.' Ser Jorah loped at her right side, sweating in his armor.

"I trust you have kept a better eye on our guest this afternoon, Ser," she said, her tone sharp. Ser Jorah mopped his thin gold-grey hair, Daenerys eased back in her saddle to shorten her silver's stride.

"Like a hawk, Your Grace," Jon Snow said wryly, at her left knee. Startled, Daenerys blinked at him. Missandei's words hung in the back of her head. _The wolf's blood runs hot_. There was something of a wolf in the look of him, quiet, watchful, compact, muscular.

"Have your wounds been tended, Snow?"

"Aye. Naught but a scratch," he said. There was no hesitance in his fluid stride from what she could see.

"And your trophies?" she asked.

"The maester tended them. As to sending a missive, they are less than cooperative. Or, at least Lannister is. Stokeworth would have sold his heir to go home, had Lannister not stopped him," Ser Jorah said.

"What does the North make of these men of the Westerlands?"

Jon Snow squinted up at her, enigmatic.

"I'm sure Lord Tyrion told you much of what happened during the War of the Five Kings. Robb marched north to retake Winterfell. Joffery was busy contending with both Baratheon brothers, not to mention Balon Greyjoy took Lannisport. There's been no southron north of the Neck since Robb was declared as king. We've not dealt much with men from the West."

She shared a significant glance with Ser Jorah; insight into Westeros politics was invaluable. Tyrion told her what he could remember, but since his imprisonment after serving as Hand, there were gaps in his memory. Even oblique conversations with Jon Snow gave them new understanding.

They were approaching the edge of camp, rowdy Dothraki drums rang, dense spices hanging in the air.

"Did Robb not marry a woman of the Westerlands?" she asked. Jon shook his head.

"No. He married Rosalin Frey, as he said he would. I told you, Robb's word is iron."

"Good news for me," she said, tongue-in-cheek.

The center of the problem was a ring of Dothraki brawling, with bare fists, not _arakhs_ thank the gods.

"Stay behind me, Snow," Ser Jorah growled. Daenerys rose in her stirrups and shouted: " _Tat yer ziganesolat jin ase ki yeri khalessi sajaki_?" One dothrakaan, a swaggering captain named Morbo lifted his bloodied fists to her, white teeth flashing in a fierce grin.

" _Kisha astolyr tat chomokh ki zhavvorsa khalessi_!" he said, to rousing cheers.

"Who has done this?" Daenerys continued in Dothraki, "no man may sink into a drunken stupor. Our enemies could attack at any time."

"One rider is worth ten of them, drunk or sober!" One man shouted. Daenerys' mouth felt dry. If she could not control her camp in victory, what would she do when they were hungry, bloodied, and freezing?

"And would you say so to Azzo? Sari? Najaho? They ride with the Great Stallion tonight, their braids cut by death. I need each of you for many battles ahead. I need you sharp as the edge of an _arakh_." To her inner relief, many among the men and women of camp nodded in agreement.

"Have I not delivered on my promises? Have I not sailed you safely across the poison water? Have I not rewarded you for the enemies you've slain with riches, horses, gifts?"

"Yes!"

" _Khaleesi_!"

"Blood of our blood!"

Daenerys lifted her voice over their answering cries. Faintly, she heard Ser Jorah translating for Snow's benefit.

"Then I promise you this: Once we have marched south and taken King's Landing, I will drink with you until the sun rises!" To laughter and cheers she sank back in her saddle, allowing a smile. The atmosphere calmed, the crowd dissipated as she watched.

"Ser Jorah, have my bloodriders post patrols. I don't want any more brawls tonight."

"Yes, _khaleesi_."

 

 

Valyrian translation: _Naejot nyke, '˜To me!'"' ;Savegon, '˜Fly!"'; Nabamagon,'˜Attack!"'; Aderei, '˜Faster!'"_

 

Dothraki translation: _Tat yer ziganesolat jin ase ki yeri khalessi sajaki, '˜Do you defy the words of your queen, riders?'"; Kisha astolyr tat chomokh ki zhavvorsa khalessi, ˜We drink to the honor of the dragon queen!''_

_She never forgets a slight, real or imagined. She takes caution for cowardice and dissent for defiance. And she is greedy. Greedy for power, for honor, for love." *-- GRRM, Dance of Dragons_


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flicker of light.

Part III

 

 

"Fifty gold crowns for the both of them? Cersei cares little for her uncle's life," she said, closing the strongbox with a trifle more force than necessary. The goldcloak representative turned his beady eyes from her Queensguard to her, his double chin bobbing in indignation. A rider from King's Landing met them on the kingsroad as they began to strike camp over a fortnight after the Battle of Harrenhal. Marshy land and sleet had slowed their progress to a crawl; they'd made it only a handful of leagues. The Battle of Harrenhal was followed by the Battle of the Marshes, and then several skirmishes besides. Frustratingly, her army had yet to leave the shadow of Harren the Black's ruin.

"The Queen's offer is fair, considering her army has smashed the Tyrell force," he said. Daenerys eyed him with naked loathing. _Losing the war, am I? We'll see about that._

"A great victory, to be sure, Lord Slynt. Of course it was the Targaryen pretender's Golden Company who did the smashing, and that only after Lady Tyrell escaped to sea," she drawled.

She could feel her dragons overhead, their emotions boiling like storm clouds--her anger stewed across their bond. As if to echo her, Rheagal roared, his was higher in pitch than Drogon's but undulated more than Viserion's. Slynt shuddered at the sound, but his stance remained defiant. She would have been impressed if she didn't see his legs shaking.

"I do not need to bandy about words with a foreign pretender!" he said, his bearded face reddening.

Daenerys made no move to rise from her seat in the sunshine, though the words made her stomach sour. The trapped warmth of the sun made her armor feel as if she was being slowly boiled. The gambeson she wore was soaked, beads of sweat trickled down her spine. She motioned to her Hand, cueing him to speak.

"As much as we appreciate the pleasantries, Slynt, I believe it is in all of our best interest to remain on point. Cersei offers us fifty gold crowns in exchange for our two captives and . . ." Tyrion let the sentence hang.

"An invitation to come to King's Landing," Slynt said, thrusting the scroll in Daenerys' direction. He would not meet Tyrion's eye.

"To bend the knee?" Tyrion asked, snatching the scroll from him and handing it to her, his tone dubious.

"An invitation to negotiate the terms of--"

"' _Your cessation of hostilities against the Crown_ ,'" Daenerys interrupted, reading the scribe's angular handwriting. Slynt nervously drummed his fingers on the pommel of his sword. This pompous fool tried every ounce of her patience. _'_ _The Crown' belongs to_ me _!_

"What are her terms?" Daenerys asked, striving for calm. The beads were rivulets now. She felt a pang of envy, Slynt wore the goldcloak's typical gold mail. Even that looked cooler than the black steel plate she wore.

"The Queen hasn't deigned to share her reasoning with me. My purpose is to extend the invitation," he said, his voice small. Daenerys shared a glance with Tyrion, seeing his shrug, and folded her hands. The movement caught the light in a red glint. Her gauntlets were molded in the shape of dragons, their eyes set with murky cabochon rubies.

"Do you know what Cersei did to the last man _I_ sent to King's Landing, Lord Slynt?"

"Ah, I am not sure . . ." he stuttered. Sweat shone on his bald head. Daenerys remembered that day, riding north to meet Stark at the Twins. Cersei had been cruel enough to send her a missive stating exactly what she thought of Daenerys' peace terms--the parchment had been spattered with her man's blood.

"White Rat, an Unsullied captain, rode unarmed, under flag of truce to deliver my terms. Cersei had her pet Gregor Clegane _tear_ his head from his body. When I offer peace, she offers blood. Tell Cersei I will not ride for King's Landing. Nor will I surrender Lord Lannister or Lord Stokeworth. Go Slynt, and see what she does to the one who returns with bad news."

There was a moment, when his gaze fell to the strongbox and he made a reflexive, abortive attempt to step toward it. Ser Jorah shifted slightly, his hand on his sword hilt. _Here he stands,_ she thought with affection, _a man of Bear Island indeed_.

She watched Slynt shoulder past her bloodriders, his foot fumbling for the stirrup of his horse. He'd barely found his seat before he kicked the poor mare hard. Watching the clods of mud fly down the kingsroad after him, Daenerys swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. She felt as if she needed to cleanse herself from more than just sweat.

"Just as charming as I remember. I exiled him to the Wall. Cersei must have called her pet back. The Night's Watch vows are not what they used to be," Tyrion said. Daenerys rounded on him, losing what was left of her temper.

"Enough with the japes, Lord Hand! I need _information_. It is only because Asha Greyjoy had the presence of mind to send a raven that I had any idea Cersei had moved on Highgarden! I need . . . I need a Master of Whispers."

"The last I saw of Varys was after he dumped me out of a stinking box in Pentos. I was very drunk at the time," Tyrion said, sipping his wine with something like relief. Unflinching under her stare, he continued, "I know of a few contacts from my time as Hand. Maybe they prefer the colors red and black."

"See that you do," she said.

"From what I understand, The Spider and Illyrio Mopatis have thrown their lot in with the Targaryen pretender," Ser Barristan said. A sound almost like a growl emerged from Daenerys' throat. Enemies that cropped up like mushrooms!

" _Aegon_ ," she spat the name like a curse, "now no longer merely a thorn in my side, he has allied himself with the _Lannisters--_ the very family who slew his family. If that is not proof enough he is a liar and pretender, I don't know what is. Melisandre!"

"Yes, Your Grace?" she said, draped in red. The ruby at her throat pulsed. A woman of her talents was wasted as a mere seer.

"Take a contingent and ride for Dorne. I would take the measure of this Aegon and those riding with him." A gleam of pleasure danced across Melisandre's face.

"Any way I can be of service, my queen," she said.

"Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost is his greatest supporter, an old friend of Prince Rheagar," Tyrion said.

"Petition the Lord of Light for aide. Ride for the Stormlands, my lady," Daenerys said.

"At once," Lady Melisandre said.

 

Daenerys spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening riding through camp. It was important that her men saw her, and more important that she see the truth of how they lived and worked. Riding amongst them returned a measure of her calm. These were her people, and it was her burden and joy to protect them.

Word from Greyjoy was both a relief and a disappointment. Yes, the Reach had fallen to her enemies, but now she had a fleet loaded with all its riches: gold and grain. It would be enough to see them through the winter. It was her hope that lesser houses might have kept their harvests. Would they survive?

"I have no wish to rule over a graveyard, Tyrion," she said.

"Of course not, Your Grace. The Reach is the breadbasket of the Realm. Lady Olenna is shrewd. I'm sure she took what she could and burned the rest. It will not be us who go hungry this winter."

The reassurance only eased some of the tension in her belly. The road before them forked. Along one route, she could lay siege to King's Landing. Starving and weakened, the city would fall before her men, who could raid for resources. Along another fork was to ride to Westerlands and break the siege of Casterly Rock. Her army could winter at the Rock, consolidating the Westerlands and her fleet with the Iron Islands, perhaps call her northern banners. Come spring she could smash King's Landing and the upstart in Dorne.

"And how long will that be? What of the Dothraki? Where can grazing land be found for their horses?"

"I don't claim to know what the Dothraki need, but logistics are one of my talents. We planned for this. Once the grass dies, we have stores of hay and grain. And there is always the North."

"Indeed. Let us hope it is enough."

Daenerys swung down from her silver and greeted Storm-Son, her Unsullied commander in Grey Worm's absence. At her behest, some of the Unsullied chose new names for themselves, thus names like Storm-Son and Dragonsblood.

"Is there anything I can provide for the Unsullied, Commander?" she asked as they walked amongst the square, black Unsullied tents. Soldiers sat in the golden late afternoon sun sharpening spears or oiling armor. She'd relinquished her helm, and was grateful for the cold, stiff breeze. Few talked in close-knit groups, several others groomed their mounts. The Unsullied quarter of camp was always quiet and immaculate. Discipline was in their bones.

"This one is pleased to have served you," he said.

Daenerys stopped and eyed him. Storm-Son stood only a hand's span taller than she, his black hair, long on top and shorn along the sides was tied back, stern brown face and dark eyes unblinking. Though an Unsullied would never complain, she had commissioned leather jerkins and gambesons for each of them, lined with wool. As with most Essosi, her Unsullied her unused to cold.  

"None of that, Storm-Son. I did not ask a slave, I asked my commander."

"As you say, Daenerys Stormborn. Unsullied have one request," he said haltingly in Common.

"Name it."

"Unsullied wish to march at head of column as honor guard," he said. Daenerys blinked at him. Discipline and obedience, that was what Unsullied were. To hear them voice their own request was as odd as it was gratifying. She thought for a moment.

"You may rotate ranks to ride at the head of the column. The rest of the Unsullied must form our rear guard. We cannot be taken by surprise."

"As you say, Daenerys Stormborn, so this one will do," he said, and his smile was like stone cracking.

 

In the privacy of her tent that evening, she could see the evidence of strain after touring the camp. Edges of tents patched and frayed from pounding sleet, horses thinning as the grasses died.

"What do you think of our campaign, Snow? Compared to your brother's victories," she asked.

Snow's sable eyes met hers, direct, fathomless. He sipped his drink, a northern ale. Much more to his taste, she noticed. Every evening when not ensconced with her generals, she summoned Snow to her tent to talk. Snow thought a moment, turning his cup idly on the table.

"Your men fight well. You keep a strict camp. And your men believe in you. That belief is often more important than rations or victories. Northmen do not give their loyalty lightly."

"There is one King in the North and his name is Stark," Daenerys quoted. Snow's unguarded smile filled her chest with soft warmth. Daenerys wished there was some armor against it.

"Yes. Lyanna Mormont, Ser Jorah's cousin. She rules Bear Island now. A girl Rickon's age," he said.

Snow looked well; he'd shaved today, his dark facial hair trimmed to a neat line along the edge of his jaw and goatee. The garb he wore was as relaxed as she'd seen. Cloak laid aside, his laced black jerkin was loosed at the throat. Daenerys would be made of stone if she didn't say that the sight of that hollow at the base of his throat looked tantalizing. If she set her lips there, she could feel the throb of his pulse, breathe the smell of him. _This is ridiculous. It's been a while since that particular appetite has been sated, that's all._ Irritated, Daenerys downed the last of her summerwine.

"Your brother must bend the knee, Snow. You know that." Even to her own ears, the tone was harsh. The last vestiges of his smile faded to his usual scowl.

"Perhaps. He was not happy to hear I rode into battle," he said, scratching the back of his head in a surprisingly sheepish gesture. It startled a soft laugh from her.

"I imagine not," Daenerys said, "I was less than pleased as well. You . . . you are too valuable to risk." The last emerged in a whisper. She cringed inwardly. _And now_ _you sound like a twittering idiot._ Snow's dark eyes smoldered.

"I think not. I'm only a bastard, after all. Lady Stark wouldn't even allow me in the hall during feasts."

"And now you dine with a queen," Daenerys said, striving for lightness. Snow nodded, leaning back in his seat.

"Not what you expected?" she said, tossing her hair from her eyes to lay loose and heavy down her back. Snow shook his head.

"Not at all. You least of all. They told me you were beautiful, but . . ." he trailed off, cleared his throat.

"I mean--I expected a mean little cot and a crust of bread for my supper." There was a hint of humor in his tone. Daenerys grinned, enjoying his gaffe.

"Well I'm happy to exceed your expectations."

Conversation stalled, and she drummed her fingers on the table. Daenerys leaned over the table, plucking a wedge of hard cheese from the serving plate. A wicked impulse occurred to her as she chewed, the flavor dry and tangy on her tongue. Faintly, she heard the patter of sleet on the roof of her tent. It would be another cold, wet march tomorrow.

At present, they had diverted their southward course to head east toward Crackclaw Point. The dense forest made the roads near impassable near the tip of the point, but Maidenpool, seat of House Mooton, was on the Bay of Crabs. There they could join up with Asha Greyjoy and the Queen of Thorns. The two had ridden for Blackwater Rush where one of Asha's ships was waiting. Â At that prospect of the grueling march ahead, she was grateful for the shelter and warmth of the brazier tonight.

Dragging her finger around the rim of her horn cup, she eyed him speculatively.

"Have you ever been with a woman, Jon?" she asked, with the deliberate use of his name. Snow looked up, eyes wide with surprise.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said: Have you ever been with a woman? Men of the Night's Watch take vows of celibacy, after all. You were only sixteen when you rode for the Wall. Is there a woman in Winterfell pining for you? Or a man?" His cheeks burned crimson.

"I've been with a woman. Only one." The soft, solemn tone struck a nerve. Grief. A muscle jerked in her cheek.

"You loved her then? Forgive me, I did not intend to mock," she said, with all sincerity. Snow gave her his half-smile, half-grimace.

"She was a wildling girl, we met north of the Wall. She died."

"It never leaves you, that feeling, that missing piece. It may fade, but it never truly leaves."

"Who did you lose, Your Grace?"

"My husband and child."

With a pang, she realized she couldn't remember the exact shade of Drogo's eyes. Rheago had been taken from her before she even knew him. _If I look back, I am lost._

"I'm sorry." His sincere, unflinching apology was comforting.

"It was years ago. There was some good in his death, it gave me my children. I set their eggs on my husband's pyre and they hatched." Snow blinked.

"And I thought a direwolf as a companion was odd."

"A _direwolf_?"

"Yes. We--my brothers and sisters and I--we found a litter of pups in the wolfwood before Father left for King's Landing. Ghost is mine. Rickon is taking care of him for me."

"Lord Tyrion failed to mention that."

"Not as spectacular as dragons, I suppose, but Ghost's shoulder is about this high," he said, measuring his hand at a height of roughly her elbow if standing. Daenerys blanched. A wolf nearly large enough to ride!

"I'm surprised Lord Stark didn't sic his wolf on me after the way I spoke to him."

"Grey Wind is much too polite for that," Jon said with a low chuckle.

"That's a relief," she said.

"I understand how the North and the Riverlands swore their banners to Stark--from what I hear, Catelyn Stark is nearly as persuasive as her son--but the Vale?" Snow shrugged in reply.

"Lady Stark is sisters with the Lady of the Vale, Lysa Arryn--Baelish now."

"As in Petyr Baelish? Littlefinger? Tyrion had much to say about him," Daenerys said.

Snow snorted into his ale. Had he taken too much? No, he wasn't drunk, just pleasantly inebriated. She had never heard him so loquacious. Easy to talk to, yes, but he preferred to keep his words to himself. Any word of Stark's battle strategies, close allies or rivals, anything but the blandest of gossip, Snow refused to say.

"Smarmy little weasel, if you ask me. Nevertheless, the lords of the Vale swore their swords to Ned Stark's son. Father was fostered at the Eyrie, along with Robert Baratheon."

She heard the pride in his voice, both in his father and brother. The wound of Stark's death was ragged and bloody, slow to heal. The lynchpin of the North was the Starks. Lesser houses would live and die by their word, and other regions of the Seven Kingdoms hesitated to ride against them. Daenerys herself was leery of taking up arms against the North, especially after Stark's gesture of trust in giving her Snow. _Marriage, perhaps? He has a Frey wife, but when did that matter to a Targaryen?_

Snow rose, a bit unsteady. He blinked at her owlishly. Somewhere in her chest she felt a lurch. He was too endearing for his own good.

"I should seek my bed, Your Grace."

Daenerys rose, glancing at the watch-candle, each hour marked by a dark ring of wax. By its reckoning, it was already a watch past supper. Time had slipped between her fingers.

" _Cyvasse_ tomorrow?" she said. Snow grinned as he shrugged on his cloak.

"I shall avenge my losses."

"We'll see about that."

She walked with him toward the weighted flap of her tent. Peeling back the damp black canvas, the world outside was a blur of pounding sleet. The wind groaned through camp, lashing her dragon banner atop the tent across from hers. Snow moved to step outside. Daenerys grabbed his arm, shivering. Gooseflesh stippled her skin at the blast of cold.

"Wait, are you mad? You'll be soaked to the bone by the time you reach your tent!" she said. Snow shrugged.

"It's only a little rain."

"Sleep here. Unless you prefer to ride damp and miserable all day tomorrow. I'll not have you fall ill for foolishness," she said in a tone that brooked no argument. Snow's stared at her as if she'd grown horns.

"Sleep here? Where?" his voice was almost a squeak.

Daenerys gestured toward her bed of sleeping furs. They could easily make two cots with her furs, but it was much more fun watching Snow nearly give himself an apoplexy at the thought.

"It's not proper. Your Queensguard would skin me alive," he said, edging toward the tent flap.

"Don't be an idiot, Snow."

"Northmen are made of stern stuff, Your Grace. I'll be all right. Just--"

Daenerys grasped a handful of his cloak and yanked him towards her. Snow staggered a little, jostling into her. His hands fell on her waist to steady himself. It was a testament to how much ale he drank that Snow did not snatch his hands away. The touch lingered, grip firm and warm, and it gave her a pleasant thrill. Nose to nose with him, he smelled of musty furs and a tang of masculine spice. His face caught an interesting balance of pretty and rugged. Arresting eyes with long, dark, lashes, a square jaw, thick beard, supple lips . . . Arousal kindled, a low, pleasant burn. For his part, Snow looked just as affected as she.

"Sit down, Snow," she said, soft and husky.

"As you wish. Where shall I sleep?"

Was she imagining it, or was he closer? Daenerys was on the cusp of tilting her head to kiss him when a gust of wind ripped through the tent, dampening them both. Cursing, Snow battened down the flap, tying it shut. Daenerys chuffed a low laugh, heaving a heap of her furs to the warm spot on the other side of the brazier.

"Take your ease there. Get some rest," she said. Snow nodded, hair hanging in his eyes. He settled on the furs, cloak tucked tight around his body. Daenerys snuffed the brace of candles, casting the tent in gloom. Only the dim orange pulse of the banked brazier lit the tent. Daenerys toed out of her boots and crawled into her furs. The air felt so cold, and yawned wide between them.

"Dream sweetly, Your Grace," he said.

"You as well, Snow."


	4. Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paths cross.

Part IV

 

"What a dreary pile of rubble," Tyrion groused upon sighting Maidenpool's sagging, grey-washed gate. It seemed apt it was named the Fool's Gate. Daenerys agreed with him, her silver waded almost knee-deep in grey-brown mud. The road--ridiculous that pothole-ridden, stumped track had the temerity to call itself a _road--_ led straight through Maidenpool along the coast to Crackclaw Point beyond. At least the sleet had slackened to a sullen drizzling rain.

"They do not seem to expect us, though," she said, scrubbing her chapped face with grimy hands. Late autumn storms threatened to dash the best of her fleet to pieces if they lingered at berth too long, so their march had been swift--brutally so. Sleep and meals were taken in the saddle. Every muscle creaked, her head felt as if wrapped in felt.

A roar echoed through the air, the ponderous flap of wings. Her children soared through the blank grey sky at least half a league above, gleaming black and green and cream in the rain. Despite being wet, aching and miserable, it always lifted her spirits to see them fly. She felt the echo of their hunger, they were no doubt intent on the seals that gathered near Crackclaw Point.

"A wonder, that," Tyrion said drolly. His smile was tight, one hand kneading his brow. Daenerys felt a pang. As rations of wine and ale waned, Tyrion had been ill and miserable for the past fortnight. Never once had he complained, or neglected his duties. Turning in her saddle, she said: "Ser Jorah, send a runner for Missandei. Bring me a posset for Lord Tyrion."

"Yes khaleesi," he said. The old knight reined his horse around to obey. As she righted herself in the saddle, she felt Tyrion's curious gaze.

"What? I cannot have my Hand falling ill."

"Thank you, Your Grace," he said with a broad smile.

Daenerys rolled her shoulders. After their grueling ride, and weeks before that on campaign, it felt as if she'd been beaten with sticks. The prospect of a roof instead of a tent, however unpleasant or temporary, was a welcome one.

Glancing to her right, she glimpsed Snow. He rode perhaps half a length behind her, his dark eyes watchful. At meeting her gaze, he gave her a small smile. Awareness of him had permeated her day. Sweet tension that drew the air taut when he was near, a quiet thrill at meeting his gaze. The night he lay so temptingly close in her tent had been a sleepless one. Every rustle and exhaled breath prickled her nerves. Part of her wanted him to crawl beside her, though the night passed in boring peace.

It could not amount to anything, even if he _was_ willing. She suspected he might be, but their roles of hostage and warden--or guest and hostess, as she insisted--were absolute. She had even entertained the idea of marrying his brother to secure a northern alliance! Daenerys shook her head at her musings. _Yes, Robb, be a dear and send your bastard brother to my chamber. I find him more to my taste._ Thoughts of having Snow to herself in her chambers scrolled through her mind for several lurid moments. Daenerys shook herself. The infatuation would dissipate with time.

By the time they slogged through the mud to Maidenpool's gates, a small party was waiting for them. A handful of guardsmen paced the wall, armed with spears. Two men and a woman, dressed as lesser nobility in dark velvet and embroidered leather, sat mounted outside the gate. Daenerys, for her part, hardly looked like a conqueror. Her black riding leathers were of impeccable quality, but lacked embellishment. The Westerosi cloak of grey wool was spattered with mud. Even her braids were damp and windblown. The silver dragon torq around her neck was her only finery.

"What's the lord's name again?" she whispered to Tyrion.

"William Mooton," he murmured. Missandei urged her spotted palfrey forward.

"My lords, you have the honor of welcoming Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her Name, rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of the Bay of Dragons, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, and Breaker of Chains," she said in perfect, precise Common. There was always a degree of faint embarrassment as her attendants rattled off her titles. The custom of long-winded introduction sounded pompous to her ears.

One of the men, presumably Mooton's steward, stepped forward. He was a plump man in starched velvet, his collar seemed to be trying to strangle his soft throat. His soft fringe of brown hair was plastered to his head.

"Erm, yes. I am Martyn of House Brookwood. I--I have the honor of presenting my lord William of House Mooton and his wife Freya." His voice was as thin and clear as a flute. The lord in question was mounted on a fat bay palfrey, his blue eyes set at a slight bulge, looking perpetually surprised. He doffed his velvet cap.

"You are welcome to Maidenpool as our guests. House Mooton is sworn to the Tullys of Riverrun. We bled for the Tullys during the War of Five Kings. We have nothing left to take part in any other," Mooton said.

"I am Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen. If I am not mistaken, the Tullys are sworn in turn to Robb Stark, called the King in the North." Mooton's startled face twisted into a scowl, eyes narrowed at Tyrion. Daenerys wasn't sure if the look meant 'Lannister' or 'dwarf.'

"Aye," he said slowly.

"Well," Tyrion's tone caught a fine balance of friendly and businesslike, "I just so happen to have a scroll bearing Stark's seal stating his surrender to Queen Daenerys." Tyrion produced the raven scroll with a flourish, the unbroken grey wax stamped with the Stark direwolf.

"As you say, you take no part. Your house is also sworn to my allies. Therefore, my army and I will enjoy your city as guests and nothing more," she said. The three opposite her broke off to converse in low tones. After a moment, Mooton reined his horse around.

"Very well, then. Welcome to Maidenpool, Your Grace. I believe you already have guests waiting for you. They wait for you at the inn," Lord Mooton said, with a sweeping gesture. Daenerys chose not to take it as insult that she was not invited to the manor house. Perhaps they presumed she wanted more space to house her men.

"A wise choice," she said, urging her silver forward.

The town was much too small to house the entirety of her force, and since their meeting here would be short-lived, Daenerys commanded the Dothraki and most of the Unsullied to range west of the city for camping grounds. Her captains Storm-Son, Rakharo, and Ser Barristan would see that the men were secure and provisioned.

Maidenpool's town showed evidence of recent strife. New lumber hammered alongside the old, several taverns and shops had smoke darkening their storefronts, though screens and doors were replaced. The townspeople skittered past their horses, clutching their parcels. Daenerys tried to smile at them, but none would meet her eye.

"What happened here?" she asked.

It was not Tyrion who answered, but Snow, urging his dapple even with her knee. After riding in the Battle of Harrenhal, the Dothraki admired his prowess. Her bloodrider Aggo rewarded him with the dapple he rode, a swift, rangy mount.

"Lannisters," he said, in the same tone one would describe vermin.

"One Lannister--all right, two," Tyrion corrected, "don't forget I was the one defending King's Landing from Stannis and Renly. I have the scar to prove it." He gestured to the jagged scar running under his left eye to his right jaw, the ridge of his nose dented.

"Aye, but you danced to Joffery's tune while my sister suffered. The North Remembers, Lord Hand," Snow said, glowering. Daenerys raised a brow in his direction. _Prone to sulking, that one. A long fuse to his temper, but once lit, little is forgiven, and never forgotten._

"In the North did you hear of any lord rising to defend Lady Sansa? There were none. None but me. It was a lucky thing Joffery died before they could force me to marry her as my father planned."

"Well. That _is_ a relief," Snow said with a curl of lip. And just like that, the tension dissipated with humor. Tyrion snickered.

"I'm not sure who was more relieved, her or me!" After a beat, Tyrion cleared his throat.

"There has been no word of her?"

"None in over a year. Lady Stark's sworn sword Brienne searched but . . ."Snow trailed off. Daenerys had little experience with a loving family--Viserys was as stupid as he was cruel. The closest thing to home had been the dilapidated house in Braavos with the red door and the lemon tree. A shoot of jealousy sprung up at the thought to Snow growing up amongst siblings, even on the periphery.

"A lovely girl like Sansa, there is no way she could go unnoticed for long. She'll turn up," Tyrion said, with his unique brand of charm and realism.

"Here," Ser Jorah said, pointing to the placard bearing the faded image of a waifish blonde woman and a kneeling knight. The tavern itself boasted a first story of river stone daubed with mortar, the inn above made of timber. It too bore signs of wear, the placard was sagging, torch-marks and dents peppered the door and wall.

"Jonquil's Dance," Daenerys read.

Swinging down from her silver, she landed with a wet squelch ankle-deep in mud. A cold puddle seeped into her boots to dampen her socks. At her grimace, Snow grinned.

"Perhaps it's better than it looks," Snow said.

"As long as there's ale," Tyrion said, shouldering through the freshly-hewn door.

The common room was dimly lit by a few smoking oil lamps. Fishermen hunched over their cups with grim determination, several guardsmen in the Mooton's colors diced in the corner. Not a soul looked up at their entrance, something she was unaccustomed to. Daenerys blinked, assaulted by a wave of odor, the wet stink of damp wool, dead fish, and spilled ale. Her eyes stung. The serving woman holding a pitcher of ale stood like a doe caught in the eye of a shadowcat, wide-eyed and frightened. Tyrion seemed at home, clinking coins together in his palm.

"Ale and perhaps some of that delicious crab I smell for me and my friends?" he said, pressing them into the woman's palm. That startled her out of her stupor. Through the fog of neglect, Daenerys could smell the fresh, briny smell of crab. Daenerys realized she was famished. A cloaked figure in the corner booth motioned to them. Daenerys stamped the worst of the mud from her boots and tramped over.

"You look like a cat in a henhouse," Asha Greyjoy said with some amusement. _She_ certainly looked right at home in a dingy tavern, slouching in the booth. Her salt-spattered jerkin and trews, cloak and boots bore signs of wear, though well-made. Asha grinned, cleaning her fingernails with her dirk, the one she called 'her sweet suckling babe.'

"This is not the first tavern I've been in, nor likely the last. A roof is a roof, after all," Daenerys said with dignity, taking her seat across from Asha. Tyrion took the seat beside Asha and Snow sat beside her. The creaking bench was narrow, so they were pressed together from shoulder to knee. Ser Jorah leaned against the wall, eyes scanning the room, hand on his sword hilt.

"Who's this?" Asha asked, gesturing with the point of her dirk.

"I'm Jon Snow," he said, nearly bristling with dislike. Daenerys shared a look with Tyrion. He told her, of course, that Asha's brother Theon had fostered with the Starks. During the War of Five Kings, the Greyjoys' role was muddled, to say the least. Asha laughed.

"The King in the North's bastard brother. You're a pretty lad. You must be beating cunts off with a stick back in Winterfell. If your fur's ruffled because of Theon, then leave me out of it. I don't know where he is."

"You--" he began.

"Enough!" Daenerys snapped, "we're here for a reason. The bloody reason we've been riding day and night to this mud pile. Let's complete our business and be on our way. The Stark words are Winter is Coming, is it not?"

"Aye," Snow said, his tone short.

"Then we must be prepared for winter. What is your report, Asha?"

House animosities set aside for now, Asha gave a detailed and thorough report of her journey. Predictably, the seas were rough and rivers sluggish up the Mander to where Lady Olenna waited. Resistance, when they encountered any, was easily dealt with.

"Still, I could only breathe easy once I reached the deck of _Black Wind_. After that, it was ease itself to sail north along the coast. Tyrell stayed on the ship, no carriage to ride through the mud."

The serving woman, buxom with mousy brown hair trundled over with their plates and mugs of ale. Each platter set down with trembling hands, punctuated with bobbing curtseys.

"Thank you," Daenerys said, pressing a silver mark into her hand. The red, cracked hands of a washerwoman, she noted.

"You're most welcome, milady. Beggin' your pardon, but it's the best we've got," she said, her eyes flickering from face to face. They lingered on Snow, she noticed. Cheeks soft with a rosy blush, lashes batting over pleasant brown eyes. Daenerys was tempted to touch him under the table, just to see him jump.

“This is fine, thank you," she said again. Some of her sharpness must have crept into her tone, for the girl quickly scurried off.

“She'll be telling her grandchildren about the day she served ale to the dragon queen," Ser Jorah said with some amusement, taking a bite of his sandwich, steaming, crusty bread stuffed with cheese and pickle.

“Or found her own Florian in a black cloak," Asha teased, draining her mug of ale, grey eyes intent on Snow. Tyrion cleared his throat. 

“More to the point . . . the grain? The gold?" Tyrion whispered--there was no telling who was listening.

“Secure, and sailing for Lannisport," Asha said.

“Lannisport?" Snow growled. Asha lazily thrust her dagger down into the table, rattling the cutlery.

“Aye, boy. Did you expect me to lug it across the Continent with sellswords and men-at-arms nipping at our heels? The Lannisters may have retaken it, but Ironborn know Lannisport. It will be safe."

“Safe with Ironborn. A contradiction of terms," Snow said, cracking a crab leg in two and slurping up the meat. Asha's habitual smirk faded.

“My men would stay on deck for a year if I asked them. Don't cast doubt on my competence as a captain, Bastard," she snarled. Daenerys felt the tension quiver through Snow, like the quiver of a growling wolf. Asha had struck a nerve.

At that, she did lay a calming hand on his thigh beneath the table. Snow hissed, disguising the flinch with a cough. From the tail of her eye, she felt the pleasant weight of his gaze. Rigid muscle relaxed under her hand, so warm through his leathers. His hand curled over hers, fingers tangling. It was her turn to cough into her mug. _Moonstruck idiot,_ she thought to herself. But she did not let go.

“There will be dire consequences if your men betray us, Asha. Remember that," Daenerys said with a measure of calm.

“I remember, Your Grace," she said, returning to her meal.

Daenerys neatly picked each morsel of tender, salty crabmeat, tore hunks of crusty white bread and soaked it in rich, creamy broth. There was a strange intimacy to the meal. Maybe it was being seated so close. Like this, they ate like servants, or a family.

“With fare like this, I can see how Lord Manderly grew so fat," she said. Snow snorted, drops of white broth clinging to his mustache.

“I'd have to agree. Nothing like eating something an hour after it's been caught," Tyrion said, gulping his ale. Whether it was the posset or the ale, the line between Tyrion's brows had relaxed.

Soon, Daenerys sagged against the booth, food and drink settling like ballast in her belly. Flushed from close quarters and ale, she felt sweat dew on her forehead. Snow's thumb stroked along her knuckles. It was a light, distracting touch, made more titillating by the rasp of his calluses. Daenerys felt a faint spark of arousal.

“What are your orders, Your Grace?" Asha said. Daenerys shook out of Snow's grip with some regret.

She braced her hands on the table to anchor herself. Her counselors spoke wisely, but ultimately the choice was hers. Should she lay siege to King's Landing? Victory was very possible, but at the expense of how many of her people--both the ones who rode with her and the innocent citizens of the Crownlands? Or should she winter at Casterly Rock, and potentially allow her enemies time to consolidate alliances and resources? 

“Once we break Casterly Rock," Daenerys said quietly, “we spend the winter there. I'll not leave my soldiers to freeze to death when there is room enough to house them. Asha, harry the coast as best you can, then berth your ships on Dragonstone. We will leave garrisons there and at Harrenhal. Lady Olenna is not safe in the south. She will ride with us." She smiled wryly at Tyrion.

“Are you ready to go home, Lord Hand?"

Jonquil's Dance largest and best room held a four-poster bed, the lumpy mattress ticked with pine needles. The fireplace was of good stone, warming the room to a comfortable temperature. _A roof and a fire. Not bad, even if I do miss my tub._ The hip bath--a former crab barrel, judging by the smell--brought up for her was serviceable, though she drew a line at letting the serving girl launder her clothes. The water was tepid, but the soap and oil were expensive, some of Lady Freya's stock most likely, sweetly fragrant. Missandei took her turn once in the bath once she'd attended Daenerys. More than once combing her hair, Missandei fumbled.

“Find your bed, my friend. I'll finish," Daenerys said gently, taking to comb. The Summer Islander's smile was faintly ashamed.

“We've spent much too long on too little sleep. Find your bed," Daenerys repeated.

“Yes Your Grace. Send Ser Jorah if you have need of me," the young woman said, slipping from the room. Ser Jorah stood at attention outside the door of her room. He would remain there all night. _I should christen more Queensguard,_ she thought, _two old knights are not enough._ Daenerys felt the edges of her vision blur as fatigue pressed down on her. She dragged the comb through her hair until it fell like a curtain of silver silk.

Eyeing the bed suspiciously, she brushed the dried mud from her cloak and spread it over the sheet. The last thing she wanted was to play host to bedbugs. Curling into the red silk lining, Daenerys drew the blankets up to her chin. The wind groaned outside and the inn creaked and settled around her. It was a peaceful, humble sound. Though weariness weighed heavy, her thoughts prodded at her, insisting there was some key piece of knowledge she'd overlooked.

Jon Snow rose to the fore, a pleasant distraction. Crammed in the booth beside him, holding his hand under the table, the sound of his snort at her jape. Those lovely dark eyes, callused hands, his hard, lean body . . . her hands smoothed down her body, finding her core slick. It was wrong, he was forbidden to her, and that added spice to her pleasure. She imagined him coming to her room, eager and hungry. He would kiss down the length of her body, his tongue gently teasing her pearl with soft, insistent licks . . . her release burst through her, a sweet, clenching heat. Sleep settled over her with a sigh.

 

 


	5. Part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany rides with her children

Part V

 

 

"You think as slowly as that elephant, Snow," she teased. Across the board from her, Jon Snow's answering smile was a token curving of lip. He eyed the _cyvasse_ board between them, one hand lingering on the ivory elephant piece. The first two fingers of the other drummed on the table as he puzzled out his next move.

Jonquil's Dance would enjoy her patronage for another night. Come dawn, Daenerys and her men would march for Casterly Rock. The firelight cast them both in a cocoon of warmth and gentle golden light. Daenerys sipped a hot mug of spiced tea, feeling at that moment content down to her bones. His strategy varied wildly from game to game. She thought he meant to take the measure of her. In answer, she rarely varied her pieces, though her progression of moves differed.

"Patience is a virtue," he said, moving the elephant to the square opposite her onyx heavy horse. Daenerys wrinkled her nose as he plucked the heavy horse piece off the board. 

"So is decisiveness," she said, artfully knocking aside his trebuchet piece with her dragon. Snow caught her gaze, his face shining with triumph.

When he made no move to shift his pieces, Daenerys scowled at the board, patterned of lapis lazuli and carnelian squares. Scrolling through the possible moves, she saw her mistake and cursed. Laughing, Snow knocked over her king piece. The sound of his laugh, rolling and almost hiccupping, was yet another thing she found endearing, stored away in the secret place labeled 'Jon.'

"You have the Other's own luck, Jon Snow!" she said.

"It's about time I defeated you! Robb would be disappointed in my skills," he said, triumphantly turning the onyx king between his fingers.

Daenerys tried not to think of the night before when she'd pleasured herself to thoughts of Snow. She wrapped her hands around her mug, hands tingling with the heat. _Control,_ she told herself. The easiest way to quell her attraction was to stay as far from him as possible. The problem was, she enjoyed his company. _And he's terrible at_ cyvasse _,_ she thought. 

"I imagine you didn't have time for games on the Wall," she said.

"Not anything as sophisticated as _cyvasse_. Mostly dice," he said, rising to stretch. Daenerys studiously avoided looking at him to admire the taut grace of him. 

"Never play with Tyrion. He'll beat you nine times in ten," she said.

"I have no doubt of it. Had he been born a bit taller, we'd be kneeling to Tyrion, First of his Name."

Snow rose and tossed another log on the fire, prodding the embers to flame with an iron poker. The fire washed him in the colors of gold and blood. Staring pensively into the fire--brooding as Tyrion called it--he looked both aloof and lonely. He really was too striking for his own good.

"That is, if every lord didn't decide they wanted to bloody chair for themselves," she said wryly.

Daenerys moved closer to him, sharing the warmth of the fire. Snow looked up from his brooding, turning those sable eyes on her. His gaze flickered down to her lips and Daenerys felt heat pool in her belly. Would he kiss her? Did she want him to? Yes, she very much did, and damn the consequences. The moment stretched on like sweet taffy pulling apart, silence broken only by the murmur of the fire. Her heart pounded. Daenerys licked her lips and Snow's hot gaze followed the movement with intense interest.

A thud of a door closing down the hall shattered the moment into glittering shards. Snow cleared his throat.

"Best enjoy this. It's a long march to Casterly Rock," he said with a grin, bracing one arm casually on the mantle.

"Yes. Perhaps we could send a raven and have your brother meet us at Riverrun. Would you like that?" He felt something for her too. She could see it in the way his expression closed off at her words. They had been companions playing a game together, now he was reminded of her role as his warden--and her wish to command his brother's bannermen.

"Yes, Your Grace." His tone was distant and polite.

"Excellent," Daenerys said with forced brightness, "then we will toast to our continued alliance." Snow raised his alecup dutifully.

"To the Starks and Targaryens," Snow said, gulping.

"To bastards and fugitives, gods help them," she said. His face softened.

"To bastards and fugitives," he echoed.

 

After a fine, hot breakfast of toasted rolls drenched with butter and honey, her company left Maidenpool behind. It was a perfect autumn morning. The sun dawning bright and golden with a cold crisp to the air. Daenerys sucked in deep lungfuls of pine scented air. Along the edges of the forests, broadleaf trees shed their leaves in the colors of fire: pale yellow, orange, and crimson. One day without rain did little to improve the roads, but at least they could see the sun. Rested and warm all the way through, she was filled with a new vigor. With almost desperate determination, she put thoughts of Snow aside. Kisses did not win wars, and she had battles left to fight.

By midday her forces were consolidated and riding for Casterly Rock. Only a continent of two armies, marshes and forests, and the oncoming winter stood in their way. In her current mood, she felt she could conquer them all with ease. Even the weather would bow before Daenerys Stormborn! Once they reached Harrenhal, they could march north to join the riverroad and onto Riverrun. Strategically, the closer they were to the Riverlands, the greater chance of ambush. Riverlords were under no compunction to defend them, and with no room for her Dothraki to run . . . Daenerys shook off her grim thoughts. That would be a problem for tomorrow. Today, all was well. 

Ravens flew, bearing her messages to her captains and allies. One such raven this morning had been from Lady Olenna. By her hand, she wrote she would not 'trapse around the continent like a bloody footsoldier.' She had chosen instead to sail with Asha to the command the garrison at Dragonstone.

Tyrion's spy network, dubbed the Order of Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things, was in its infancy, but a piece of useful information sang that the Stormlands were on fire. Reports varied as to what caused it, or how widespread it was, but the word was mysterious forces were at work. Daenerys wondered if Melisandre had a hand in any of it.

Reaching through their bond, Daenerys summoned Drogon. Today was a perfect day to fly.

"I will fly for the remainder of the day," she told her small council.

"Your Grace, allow me to arm you," Ser Jorah insisted. Daenerys laughed.

"Don't worry, my sweet old bear. I have my children to protect me. Missandei, fetch my thicker cloak."

It took some time, Daenerys knew Missandei had to ride to the back of the column to their baggage train, find her clothing chest, and fetch the item she asked for. Bless her, she returned with the cloak as well as fur-lined gloves. Daenerys led her protesting counselors into a clearing off the kingsroad and swung off her silver. Behind Ser Jorah, Snow wore a furrowed brow. Angry at herself for meeting his gaze, Daenerys adjusted the brooch of her cloak.

"All will be well. I swear on my honor I will not fly farther than our scouts."

"Your Grace, your armor at least--" Ser Barristan began. Her temper flared.

"Enough! I am a dragon rider and a queen. I will not be browbeaten."

A roar split the sky and Daenerys watched her Black Shadow eclipse the sun with his descent. Missandei caught her silver's reins as their horses shied. Her dragons smelled too much of blood and fire to keep the horses calm. While they struggled with their mounts, Daenerys waded through knee-high yellowed grass, smelling richly of loam and rain. She crouched as Drogon landed, the ground shuddering. There was something like delight echoing from him. Drogon missed her.

"Hello, love," she said in Valyrian.

Drogon butted her chest, hard enough to make her stumble. Laughing, she scratched at the loose scale underneath his jaw, grimacing at the stench of his scorching breath--like scorched fur and hot meat. His teeth were as long as her forearm, each coming to a wicked point. Such a fearsome thing, her child. She climbed his spikes to her seat.

" _Sove_ _s_!" she said. Drogon bounded once, landing with rattling impact in the road--Daenerys nearly impaled her arm on one of his spikes--then several heavy flaps and they were flying. Drogon climbed in the cold air, skimming through feathery clouds. Daenerys gasped at their cold, damp caress.

Daenerys yelled into the sky, feeling so _alive_. Rhaegal and Viserion met them in the sky swooping so close she was buffeted by the wind of their wings. The two of them screeched and growled, as if talking to her. Their bond was awash with the simple joy of flight. Their bellies were full, Daenerys felt a vague impression of hot, rich meat. Her stomach turned at the thought of torched seal.

Piercing a layer of cloud, leaving her damp with dew, Daenerys drew in a breath. The rising sun was afire with golden light, its rays catching the clouds in every hue of yellow and gold, the bellies of some clouds clinging to their former grey. Against the brilliant blue of the sky, it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. Tears welled in her eyes. She would cherish the beauty of the moment, so high above the world. Compared to the immensity of the sky, what was a woman such as she?

"Thank you," she whispered.

Not to any deity, no, she had long ago set aside any thought of faith. Instead she bid thanks to the powers that moved the world: magic, power, nature. Drogon stretched out his neck and _roared_ , so loud that she slapped her hands over her ringing ears to muffle the sound. _A dragon needs no homage. Wonder and awe are his due, just by being._

With a gentle flick of her mental rein, she bid her children to stay near the slow-moving army. Below, they looked like ants making their way across the scrolling expanse of green, dotted here and there with sprigs of color. Content to fly, she lay forward on Drogon's back, pillowing her chin on her folded arms. The wind buffeted them, cold and clean, but her clothing and the heat of his scales kept her pleasantly warm.

Beyond the wind's whistling and her dragon's wingbeats, there was perfect silence. Up here, she could almost pretend she was a dragon herself. Idly, she thought of Brandon Stark. Snow's brother was last seen by a brother of the Night's Watch north of the Wall. Warging, the brother called it, a wilding talent where they could slide into an animal's skin and walk as they walked. According to Tyrion, there was very little written on the subject. _A wolf with the eyes of a man!_ That was meaning of Melisandre's vision! The Stark boy was important to her cause somehow.

"But how? He's half a world away, there's no time for me to search him out!" she said to her children.

They could give her no answer, so she contented herself with watching Rhaegal and Viserion spiral and twist, whine and squabble together. Drogon had always been the most independent of the three. Daenerys felt awash with regret. She'd locked them away. Before she'd mastered the trick of communicating with them, they'd been responsible for the death of a small child. That would always be one of her greatest regrets, and a harsh reminder. An inattentive queen could easily become responsible for the death of innocents if she wasn't careful. Time passed in sweet peace as they flew.

As Drogon banked to the right, Daenerys looked down. Her dreamy peace evaporated. Her army was gone! Below them lay the forests and marshes of the Crownlands. She could make out on the western horizon God's Eye Lake, dotted with its Isle of Faces. She mustered her strength to command them back when she saw a tight group marching up the kingsroad. Too large to be a group of smallfolk. Too disciplined to be an envoy.

"Let's get a closer look!" she said, shifting on Drogon's back.

In her mind's eye, she kept the coil of her tether wound tight around her hand. _No blood. No fire,_ she said sternly. _Just fly._ The three obeyed, skimming into a low, gentle dive. Daenerys adjusted her grip on Drogon's scales, squinting at the group below. Lannister soldiers? They flew no sigil as far as she could see. Their number was strangely small--from her rough count, maybe a hundred, and only half that number mounted cavalry. No archers to be seen, either. Against her army of ten thousand strong?

"Closer, Drogon," she said. A low growl simmered in Drogon's throat. His brothers stayed aloft, their interest drifting to the vees of geese not far off--a tasty snack. As she watched the formation broke.

"They see us. A bit late, hmm?" she felt a faint wash of amusement. What would they do? Would they run? Attack? Drogon had flown close enough for Daenerys to pick out the Lannister red of their capes and lion-crested armor, but no sigil. Sellswords, then. A scrum of movement to the rear caught her attention. The men milled around a cart.

"What are they--?" she began. One man yanked aside the tarp and cold fear flashed through her.

_Ballista_!

A barbed spear swiveling toward--

"Drogon, _s_ _o_ _ve_ _s_!" Daenerys cried out, her voice cracking. 

Drogon keened, his wing muscles tense as he tried to slow their dive. With a sharp metal _thunk_ the ballista fired. Bound so close to his mind, Daenerys felt the pain as her own as the bolt struck home. Her broken scream was swallowed by Drogon's strident roar. A wicked point of cold steel into her wing hurtpain!hurt. . . red fell over her vision as the pain and rage gushed from Drogon.

They tumbled in the sky. His blood steaming felt like fire as drops fell on her. Through the fog, she urged him to fly, just barely able to keep her seat. Drogon was able to right himself. The ground!

Too close!

Too clo--

Drogon snarled, flaring his wings despite the terrible, terrible pain. His claws struck earth and Daenerys was thrown from his back. Colliding with his wing, she bounced off and landed with a teeth-jarring thud flat on her back, one arm outflung. The wind knocked out of her, half-blind with Drogon's pain, Daenerys sucked in ragged gasps of air, clinging to her sanity by her fingernails. Her vision swam with black spots, with immense effort she rolled to her hands and knees, fingers curling in the cold, soft mud. Her right shoulder throbbed, but whether it was a reflection of Drogon's pain or a true injury, she wasn't sure. Surrounded by enemies on an open plain, her army nowhere close, with an injured dragon, and not so much as a twig to protect herself _. I'm fucked._

"Gods," she whispered.

 


	6. Part VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescue and recovery

Part VI

 

"Gods!" she said again. Daenerys shook her head to clear the last of the fog. Pain throbbed from her complaining arm. No time for fear, for pain. The sellswords were attempting to surround the two of them. The din of their horses and their shouts felt strangely distant. Gods, had she struck her head? No time for jumbled wits! Drogon crouched above her, emitting a low, rolling snarl.

"Drogon." Her words didn't reach him. Even through their bond she felt only a seething tide of blinding fury and pain, threatening to swallow her. Tears clotted her lashes.

Daenerys ducked under his neck to find the steel barb embedded at the base of his right wing. The spear was at least as tall as she was, wooden shaft as thick as one of her arms. Trusting Drogon to protect her back, she grasped the smooth wood and pulled. The fingers of her right hand tingled, sluggish to obey. Drogon roared.

"Easy now, darling. Let me get it out," she said, each jerk sending a thorn of pain through her own shoulder.

" _Charge_!" Daenerys turned in time to see a jagged line of horses charge at them, wicked spears couched low, horns blaring.

"Dracarys!" she said, burying her face in the crook of her arm. Drogon's fire burst in a molten stream. Those closest to it--three horses and riders at least--were simply incinerated. White ash over blackened bones collapsing in a heap, without so much as a breath to scream. The rest caught fire--hair and clothing, fur and armor covered in hungry black fire. Skin bubbled and bleeding, flesh melting, thin, jagged screams. The horrid piercing squeals of burning horses.

Drogon's heat felt enough to melt her flesh from her bones. Even if it did not harm her, it was still bloody uncomfortable being so close, but even that was a pale reflection of what their enemies felt. There was a vicious satisfaction in watching them burn. They dared strike at her child!

While he was distracted, Daenerys succeeded in yanking the bolt free. Streaming red blood poured from the wound. _Please don't be too deep, don't cripple him!_ Drogon roared again, the sound high and sharp with pain. He struck out at men with his fangs, his wings, his tail.

A hand yanked a handful of her hair, dragging her away. Daenerys cried out at the prickle of pain across her scalp, swallowing the cry immediately at the prick of a dagger at her throat.

Several yards from Drogon, she was yanked back against the armored body of a soldier. From the tail of her eye, she saw a hideous mien of bubbled blisters, dark eyes peering from folds of swollen, weeping skin. He stank of half-roasted meat, piss, and sweat. The man twisted her weak arm behind her back. Pain made sweat dew on her face. Breath came in soft, shallow pants.

"Not so strong now without your pet, hmm? Such lovely skin. How about I peel off a bit? Soft bitch like you, you'll scream so sweet." Gods, her _arm_ , the bones were _screaming_ . . . A shadow passed over the sun.

"You are going to die," she said with only the barest tremor in her voice. The knife bit, breaking the skin beneath her chin, the pain a sharp burn. A dribble of blood trickled down her neck, cool in the air.

"The black won't risk hurting you," he said, jerking her square in front of him. Drogon's red eyes were trained on them, his massive body curled like a shadowcat about to pounce.

"True, but what about him?" she said, looking up. The ground shuddered. Once, twice.

"Wha--" That was his last fragment of a word as Rhaegal took him in his jaws. A shriek, a vicious, snapping twist of Rhaegal's head, and he hung limp.

Daenerys' knees gave out and she fell to the ground. The field was in chaos. Horses and men running in all directions. Shouts gone unheard, spears and shields thrown down and forgotten. A strike of Drogon's tail shattered the ballista wagon to splinters. A gout of black-tinged flame finished the job.

Pain and reaction washed over her in waves first hot, then cold. Hot, cold, hot, cold. Her teeth chattered. Drogon's snout nudged her shoulder. Looking up, all three of her children regarded her with glittering animal eyes. A sob rose in her throat, she choked on it. Love and gratitude bubbled up and she pushed it through their bond. The three preened, uttering little humming, clicking noises, the dragon equivalent of love words.

" _Daenerys_!"

She staggered to her feet at the sound of her name, cradling her arm. Her fingers were numb, faint pins and needles of pain prickling her forearm.

"Snow?" she said. How had he--?

A knot of horses galloped full tilt toward them across the field. Daenerys recognized Rakharo's black, Kovarro's wiry bay, and Snow on his dapple. Some of the fastest, freshest horses they had, she remembered dimly.

" _For the khaleesi_!" her bloodriders said with howling Dothraki war cries, reining their mounts after the fleeing sellswords. Their _arakhs_ gleamed black in the sun. Her dragons took to the idea, leaping into the clear blue sky after them. She felt bereft without their warm bulk. There was only slight hesitation in Drogon's right wing, she saw.  

Snow pulled up his lathered, blowing mount, dismounting with a rider's smooth skill and hastily sheathing the sword he held. His usually stern face wore a look of naked fear.

"Are you all right?" _I must look a fright._ Hair in sooty, tangled hanks, her clothes half burned, dried blood on her face . . . His eyes wandered over her, hands hovering anxiously in the air.

"Gods, you're bleeding," Snow said, shrugging off his cloak and swathing her in it. His hands were shaking--his whole body quivered like a plucked bowstring. Everything felt so far away, she swayed on her feet. Daenerys watched him look around, seeing the charred bodies and smoking wagons. The man who grabbed her lay limbs askew like a broken doll, empty eyes staring into nothing.

"Come," Snow said, leading her away from the carnage to a patch of clean grass. Jon raked a hand through his hair, his fists clenched and unclenched, gripped by some powerful emotion.

"Are you out of your bloody mind? Flying off without so much as a sock knife to defend yourself, not a stitch of armor. What if they'd had archers? If even one arrow--" he broke off, uttering a low growl of frustration.

"Swear you'll never do that again!" Snow grabbed her shoulders to shake her. Pain knifed through the haze and Daenerys cried out in pain. She twisted away from him and cradled her arm.

"Seven hells! I--I didn't know you were hurt. Daenerys, here, let me see . . ." Jon said, hands light as bird's wings touching her hair, her face. Those lovely eyes, so wide and brimming with concern.

"Jon," she said. It felt good to say his name.

"My shoulder." Peeling back his cloak, he uttered a string of filthy curse words.

"I'll kill those bloody cowards. Your arm's out of socket. I can fix it. Popped mine out while training with Ser Rodrik, Maester Lewin fixed it in a trice. I just need to--"

Jon drew her back against him, murmuring nonsense words like gentling a horse. The hot male smell of him, his lips brushing her ear, tickling her hair with his warm breath . . . his grip on her forearm was hard, _pulling_ out. Daenerys sucked in gasp.

"Hush now, love. Hush, I'll fix it. A little more," he crooned.

Daenerys cried out as the pain escalated. Bone and tendon shrieked inside. She bit down on her lip, fighting tears. With a soundless pop, her shoulder sank into place and the pain ebbed to a faint twinge.

"There, that's better, hmm?" Jon said, gently kneading her upper arms, his nose nuzzling her hair. Daenerys twisted in his grip. He went utterly still, eyes shadowed. Daenerys cupped his cheek, enjoying the chafe of his beard against her palm.

"Jon," she whispered. Jon laid his forehead against hers.

"The way Drogon _roared_ , I thought . . . I thought--"

"Shh," she said, tilting up toward him.

The brush of her lips against his was soft, hesitant. A sound like a groan escaped him. Jon lunged close. He seized control with hot, languid, sipping kisses, rough hands cradling her face. Daenerys felt warmth curl down to her toes, hands fisting in his jerkin. She sought more of the delicious magic of his mouth, deepening the kiss. When she flicked her tongue against the roof of his mouth, he _purred_. Jon suckled on her lower lip with gentle pressure and she uttered a soft sound of pleasure. A kind of madness possessed her, a soul-deep hunger for more. More of his taste, the press of his body, his heat and touch.

Faintly, she heard the thunder of horses. Daenerys broke away. There was an instant where his pleasure-darkened eyes met hers in confusion, in hurt. His grip on her tightened. Daenerys stepped back out of his embrace, assailed by longing and guilt in turns. Jon gave her barest nod, but if it was in resignation or understanding, she wasn't sure. Looking up, she found her returning bloodriders. More horses crested the horizon from the east, her army made its way from the kingsroad.

"Khaleesi, the flies who pestered you are now dead," Kovarro said in Dothraki with pride, swinging down from his saddle. Upending his satchel, five severed heads fell to the mud. The frozen terror of their expressions, their glassy eyes, the ragged edge of their severed, still-bleeding necks turned her stomach.

"I owe you gifts for serving me, blood of my blood," she said in the same tongue, with a wobbly smile. Rakharo rode up, with three horses trailing behind. Swaggering, he kicked one of the heads in scorn and clapped Jon on the shoulder.

"Snow of the Wolf Tent rides like a dothrakaan," he said in thickly accented Common. His smile fell at the sight of Daenerys. An eerie stillness settled over him. 

"One of these _fleas_ spilled your blood, khaleesi?" he said, gesturing to the scabbed trail of blood on her throat.

"The bite of a fly," she said, touching the cut. Her fingers came away with a fresh red smear. She glanced at the body a couple yards away.

"Rhaegal took care of him."

"This cur will rot in the sun. May maggots consume his bones," Kovarro spat, beheading the corpse with a terse swing of his _arakh_. Among Dothraki, a man could only enter the afterlife with his body whole. Otherwise, he was a ghost wandered amongst the night-grass.

Daenerys shivered. The cold sank into her bones, she felt as insubstantial as a shadow. She hugged herself. Jon silent and watchful, offering her his cloak. It was a dispassionate gesture, without meeting her gaze. She accepted its warm weight.

"What happened here, khaleesi?" Rakharo asked, summoning his black with a low whistle.

"We wait until the rest of them catch up. I only want to retell this once," she said.

The two Dothraki and Jon set about pilling the bodies, gathering any salvageable weapons or armor. They finished as the head of the column overtook them, including her Queensguard. Even though marching instead of riding, the Unsullied honor guard barely seemed winded. Ser Barristan dismounted.

"Your Grace, are you--"

"Have the men stop. We will rest and change mounts. Here is as good a place as any for the midday meal. No need to pitch a tent, a shade will do. There we will meet and I will catch you up."

"Yes khaleesi," Ser Jorah said.

The time it took to settle the men, pitch the shade, and gather her small council gave Daenerys time to regain her equanimity. By some magic, Missandei found a pitcher of warm water and set about washing her face and untangling her hair. As she did so, Daenerys crammed food onto her plate that a servant laid on the folding travel table.

"A fine appetite," Jon said from his place leaning against the shade support. Somehow she could not make the mental switch back to 'Snow.' He was Jon to her now, after such a kiss. Daenerys gave him a narrow look, too busy chewing on her bread and cheese to retort.

"Any time she rides her dragons she is always exhausted and starving after," Missandei said, deft hands twisting Daenerys' silver hair into a hasty masterpiece. Two braids near her crown joined a thicker braid down the center of her back. The soft layers underneath lay loose.

Ser Jorah insisted on summoning the maester. Jaron ducked under the shade with a murmured courtesy. He was a tall, slender man with short-cropped red hair and a neat, short beard. Grey-robed, his chain rattling he moved, his hands were cold as they probed and rolled Daenerys' shoulder. She grunted at a particularly painful rotation.

"Lord Snow did a fair job resetting your shoulder, Your Grace. I would suggest a sling until the swelling subsides," he said, his voice surprisingly deep for so waifish a build. A touch of stinging salve to the cut on her neck, a length of linen fashioned into a sling, and she was summarily tended.

"Thank you, Maester Jaron," she said in a tone that was both polite and dismissive, washing down the bread with a long swig of cold watered wine. She wished for a carafe of something hot to warm her insides. The maester nodded and followed a runner back to his tent. Her small council trickled in. None questioned Jon's presence alongside her bloodriders.

When at last Tyrion took his seat at the foot of the table, she felt restored enough to tell the tale. The silence was leaden when she finished. Daenerys drank deep, knowing how easily the outcome could have been different. At best, she could have been captured, at worst . . . there could be only two dragons in the sky. Daenerys swallowed hard, biting back the bile that rose in her throat.

"So this ballista? Can you describe it?" Ser Jorah asked, gesturing for a scribe to bring paper. Daenerys did so with as much detail as she could remember as the scribe took down a crude sketch.

"The sellswords wore Lannister colors?" Tyrion said.

"Yes."

"The ballista's Qyburn's doing, no doubt," Ser Barristan said, adjusting his white gambeson.

"Aye, but the question is: was this ballista a prototype? Or will every turret be fitted with one when we arrive at King's Landing?" Tyrion said.

Daenerys quailed at the thought. Men she had lost in battle, Dothraki, Unsullied and Essosi alike, and she had never grown used to it. But an attack on her children . . . Since reaching their adult size, they always felt so powerful, invincible even. It shook her to the core that they could be hurt.

"An attack with the ballista will not work again. We would be sure to destroy any wagon before Her Grace was anywhere near it," Jon said.

Tyrion caught her eye, glancing dubiously at Jon. Somewhere along their march, he'd ceased being a hostage, and twice now insinuated himself into the rhythms of camp and war council. A rider and warrior. _And bed-slave,_ an unpleasant voice in her head pointed out.

As tempting as she found him, Daenerys knew she could not pursue anything physical with Jon-- _Lord Snow_. As long as Robb Stark's allegiance was bought with Jon's life, they were not equals. Daenerys made a note to give Ser Jorah a tongue-scalping. Jon had slipped the leash again.

"Snow is right. We disable wagon so Stormborn and dragon are safe," Storm-Son said in a voice that suggested that anything less would be inexcusable.

"It won't always be that simple, as Lord Tyrion pointed out when we besiege a city," Ser Barristan said.

"We did learn an important lesson today," Ser Jorah said, his seamed face grave. Daenerys held his hard blue gaze.

"We learned you should not fly without help close."

"Yes, it was my foolish temper that nearly wrecked our campaign. I realize that. I swear I will not fly without support below," she said.

The conversation turned toward the logistics of their march. Their course was still to Riverrun. Tyrion promised he would reach out to his contacts to see how widely Cersei produced ballista. The result of his intelligence could change the course of their march. _I will not give Cersei the winter to outfit King's Landing with these machines. I would rather King's Landing burned,_ she thought as she mounted her silver.

 

At dusk, as they settled into camp, Daenerys watched her children fly. Drogon seemed no worse for wear after the bolt, majestic on wing. Soaking in her tub had gone a long way to restoring her sangfroid, though the sling proved irritating. The camp fell into a familiar rhythm of posting guard, pitching tents, dining and dicing as the sun sank in the west. The cold air made her grateful for her comfortable leathers and woolen tunic.

Daenerys couldn't stand to spend another minute cooped in her tent or even riding. It felt good to stretch her legs walking amongst camp. With her hood up protecting her damp hair, there was a degree of anonymity too. Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah she'd dismissed with a gentle plea for solitude.

Weaving through tents, she made her way to the strings of horses. Grooming her silver was a particular pleasure, and a calming one. The gesture was entirely redundant, her Dothraki kept her horses impeccably groomed, her tack soaped and oiled. Still, it was the closest she could come to being alone within the confines of camp.

The low murmur of Jon's voice nearly made her turn around. Daenerys shook off the cowardly impulse and, squaring her shoulders, marched along the horse lines. At the wet squelch of her step on the muddy ground, Jon looked up from grooming his dapple. His expression was inscrutable.

"Don't be too hard on Ser Jorah. Bastards are used to going unnoticed, so it's an easy thing to slip away. Kovarro already had Flint saddled for me," he said.

"Flint?" she repeated. Jon patted the dapple's rump and said: "Flint."

"Dothraki don't name their horses. Their children, sometimes their _arakhs_ , but not their horses," she said, picking up a twist of hay and scraping the dried sweat from Flint's neck, awkwardly done left-handed. The solid warmth and smell of horse, hay and manure was soothing.

"Isn't that strange? They worship horses," Jon said.

"The Great Stallion," she said, then after a beat, "Sno--"

"You don't have to say it. What happened on the field today can't happen again. I know that." Jon's eyes were on the sweeps of his brush, slow and hypnotic. Flint's ears were relaxed, one hoof cocked as he dozed. At a loss, Daenerys nodded.

"A moment of madness," he said.

Discomfited, Daenerys tossed aside her hay twist and ducked under Flint's neck to stand beside Jon. His words so closely echoed her own thoughts. Gods, she could ride dragons and command armies, but this man made her tongue tie itself in knots!

"I--I want to thank you for helping me," she said. Jon was merciless.

"Is that why? Gratitude?"

At the challenge in his tone, she drew herself up to her full height, feeling the first kindle of temper. He said he _understood_!

"No. I wanted to." In the dim light, his eyes seemed to glow, like a wolf's.

"Do . . . do you still want to?" he whispered.

"Yes," she said softly. He loomed so _close_.

Daenerys wasn't who moved first, but one moment they stared each other down like opponents in a fighting match, the next he took her hand and led her through a maze of tents to a small black tent several yards away. Soft sunlight seeped through the sturdy canvas--inside there was a cot, a stool bearing a single unlit candle, a heap of tack in one corner, and a bundle bearing his spare clothes. The Stark gorget glinted in the half-light.

Then all other thought was pushed from her mind. His hands and his mouth were on her, hot and insistent. His lips met hers, not in gentle persuasion, but in _demand._ Daenerys shrugged out of her sling to grab handfuls of his wonderfully curly black hair, holding him in place as he plundered her mouth. If there was a slight ache in her shoulder, the sounds he uttered made it well worth it. At a sharp tug, he growled.

The hot, sinuous movements of his lips, the flicks of his tongue overwhelmed her. _I should stop this._ It was faint, fading thought. How could she think with this heat, this magic that sparked between them?

"Just once more," she said, kissing along his throat to that enticing hollow at the base. He tasted wonderful, like salt and ale.

"Just once more," he agreed. Yes, burn the passion out of her body, exorcise the need to have him.

Heat and passion throbbed like a heartbeat, dragging her away in its tide. Her hands molded the contours of neck, shoulders and back--so lean and strong. His hands mimicked her, smoothed over her body, mapping her shape. A soft grazing touch along her breasts and down her belly, then as she nipped his lower lip, a hard grip on her hips, yanking her flush with him. Daenerys melted at the feel of the hard shape of him through his leathers. He was willing, and so was she.

"Dany," he breathed, panting against her throat. The low northern accent was so thick she could barely understand the word. Oh, yes, she very much liked it when he said her name like that.

He pressed soft, damp kisses down her throat, careful to avoid the scabbed cut. Daenerys shuddered, dragging at handfuls of his jerkin. Overbalanced, together they staggered back. She landed hard on the cot--a crude thing, rope threaded through a wooden frame and covered in canvas. Jon braced on knee on the cot over her, never relinquishing her mouth. Daenerys lost herself in the drugging heat of his kisses, _aching_ for him to be closer. She draped one leg over his calf, drawing him in. Through their clothes, even the dull pressure of his cock pressed against her was enough to make her toes curl in her boots.

Jon groaned, rearing back enough to struggle free of his jerkin. Her mouth watered at the ridged muscles of his torso. She pressed a hand to his chest, admiring the play of light on his pale skin, the scant dusting of chest hair, the delicious heat of him. His expression was one of such unguarded tenderness that her heart lurched in her chest. _Gods help me._

"Jon," she whispered.

Jon settled over her, the warm press of naked skin dizzying. Jon kissed her deep and sweet, his hips arching in short, grinding thrusts. _Gods_ , the pleasure pooled in her belly surged with each movement. That combined with the soft lash of his tongue, the thunder of his heartbeat, the grip of his hand against her hip made the pleasure surge higher and higher . . . the crest broke over her and she hugged him close, whimpering into his mouth.

" _Yes_ ," he hissed, fingers plucking at the lacings of her trousers.

Daenerys tugged his head back down to hers by a handful of his hair, feeling languorous and relaxed yet craving more of his taste. Jon's fingers fumbled beneath her smallclothes, grazing her opening. She arched underneath the gentle, insistent caresses on her pearl. In embarrassingly short succession, he wrenched another intense release from her. Those _fingers_ curled so sweetly inside her, drenched in her juices. Gently pulling back with a soft wet sound, Jon sucked her dew from his fingers. It was the most erotic thing she'd ever seen.

"Your turn," she insisted, twisting on the cot.

Jon bounced on the creaking cot with a look of blank surprise. Daenerys wasted no time with the laces of his trousers. Gods, Jon Snow had a beautiful cock. Thick, flushed, so hard it tipped up toward his belly.

"You . . . you don't have to, if you--" he stuttered. Daenerys silenced him with a long lick from root to tip. The words broke off in a choked, glottal sound. The cot was too narrow for her to lie and suck him, so she stepped off, legs jellied from his attentions.

"Sit up," she said, softening the words with a sloppy kiss. Jon swung his legs over the side, eyes wide and watchful. Daenerys knelt on the packed dirt of his tent between his knees. Jon swayed toward her, and she rewarded him with another glancing kiss.

"Come here," she whispered. He seemed skittish, so Daenerys began with slow strokes with her hand. Jon's head fell back, exposing the long, lovely line of his throat. Grinning, Daenerys bent to her task. Mm, she loved the salty male taste of him, the heat of his supple skin. Jon cupped her head, restlessly petting her hair with unbearably gentle hands, each breath emerging in a choked wheeze. She caught his eye as she suckled him, slick with spit. Jon's pupils were wide and dark, mouth slack. Daenerys knew that look. Gods, had he been _aroused_ when she'd been in her armor after the Battle of Harrenhal? Daenerys hummed around him, maintaining the torturous pace.

" _Please_ ," he groaned, hips rocking in time with her strokes. Daenerys quickened the pace, sucking him deep.

"Dany, Dany!" he cried in warning.

Daenerys nearly finished herself at the sight and smell of his rigid body, the taste of his issue on her tongue. She drank down every drop as he subsided in a twitching heap on his cot. Daenerys rose, exhilarated by the rush of pleasure. Jon's sable eyes looked at her as if she were his own personal goddess. Half-naked, damp with sweat, and panting, he looked thoroughly debauched.

"Remember, _cyvasse_ tomorrow Snow." 

 


	7. Part VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Riverlands await.

Part VII

 

"Have you ever seen Riverrun, Lord Tyrion?" she asked, rolling her shoulder gingerly. Most nights it was sore after the day's ride, but today as the late afternoon sun gleamed like battered silver on the surface of the Red Fork, not even a twinge. Which was fortunate, given that she'd taken to riding in her armor. The river and dense forest hemmed them in on either side of the riverroad, so her company remained on constant guard against ambush.

"No, Your Grace. Once the war broke out, I traveled little. Though we did get an invitation to the funeral of Hoster Tully. His son Edmure Tully now holds Riverrun."

"And he is Lady Stark's idiot brother, yes?" she said, taking a long drink from her waterskin. Fresh from the river, it tasted blessedly crisp and cool. Tyrion laughed.

"Vainglorious and prickly, but not a fool, no," he said, crunching on an apple. Tyrion cut a fine figure in his black plate armor. Instead of a red dragon, his bore the image of a Hand's badge on the breastplate in glittering gold leaf. When she'd brought up that he need not advertise the rank he held, he replied: 'every man, woman and child in Westeros thinks me a murderous, traitorous kinslayer. Your badge is the least of my worries.'

"Snow says he once lost two hundred men to take a _mill_ ," she pointed out.

"Well, that was stupid. But in his defense, his house used to be the Lords Paramount of the Trident. Now, Edmure plays second fiddle to his nephew, the King in the North. Am I right, Bastard of Winterfell?"

"Aye, Dwarf of the Rock," Jon said, smirking.

Daenerys found it was no hardship to ride with him, even after their 'just once more' in his tent. It was considerably harder to sit across a _cyvasse_ board, alone in her tent with her bed only steps away. Daenerys cherished a delicious mental image of him sprawled naked on those furs, sable eyes intent as he reached for her . . . She shook herself, warding off the low burn of hunger. Missandei had commented in a sly tone more than once that 'the wolf's blood runs hot.' No, Jon was surely in a fine mood now because he would see his family again for the first time in months.

"To be fair, I've never been to Riverrun either. The closest I've been is the Inn of the Kneeling Man," Jon said.

"I should have met with your brother there instead. More poetic," she said, teasing.

"If that innkeeper marked the exact spot where Torrhen Stark bent the knee to your ancestor, Your Grace, then I'm actually a Faceless Man," Tyrion said dryly.

"But who would choose to wear your face?" Jon said.

Daenerys bit back her snort of laughter. Tyrion retaliated by the throwing the apple core at Snow's head. Blinded by the setting sun, it struck Jon square in the forehead. Then she couldn't help but laugh, joined by Ser Jorah and Missandei.

Another flurry of movement to her left. The laughter died in her throat when a man-at-arms riding to her left pitched forward in his saddle--an arrow in his neck.

" _To arms_!" Ser Barristan bellowed.

"Protect the Queen!"

Daenerys blinked, shocked by the sight of one of her men slumped over the neck of his horse, his blood a red-black stain, trickling thickly over strands of silver mane. The head of the column tightened in a thorny ring around her. Shouts echoed down the length of their line. Storm-Son and his Unsullied fanned out, spears and armor sharp and gleaming in the dying sunlight. Jon urged Flint between her and the screen of trees, brandishing a square wooden shield painted in her colors. The only armor he wore was a studded leather jerkin. Her mouth went dry. Where was Drogon and his brothers?

A heavy quiet fell, silent save for the murmuring of the river. Her nerves felt stretched taut, her hands rigid on the reins. Battles were much easier to endure when aloft with her children. She squinted into the impenetrable trees, every falling leaf and broken twig now an enemy. Should they march on? Only a handful of leagues separated them from Riverrun.

"Jor--" she began, her voice swallowed by rough shouts, the cry of horses and the clash of metal. Near the bend in the road to the east behind them, she saw a ripple of movement--too jumbled to understand.

"Form up! _Form up_ , you fools!" Ser Barristan shouted.

Minutes passed with dreadful slowness, punctuated by sporadic battle--never in the same point, and never for more than a several minutes.

"The bastards are attacking the fringes and melting back into the trees," Ser Jorah said, resting his naked sword on his armored thigh.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say they were--" Tyrion began. His words were cut off by a thunderous crash behind them.

" _Jurnegon hen, Jelmazmo_!" Storm-Son's strident voice was muted by his helm.

Daenerys swiveled in her saddle in time to see a massive log rolling down the hill toward them, bouncing with ponderous grace over the low wall lining the riverroad. Daenerys touched her heels to her silver and, despite the scrum of men and horses, cleared the log with ease. She realized her mistake. The log was meant to break their line, spread them thinner so--

A harsh yell, a flash of steel, and Daenerys was falling. She landed in a heap on the ground, tangled in her saddle. The girth had been cut.

Floundering for her feet, encumbered by her armor, she watched the man approach--a mountain of stinking half-cured furs and a goat-skull helm, wielding a black steel axe. He grinned, exposing long yellowed teeth. Dimly she heard the sounds of battle as her Queensguard and Unsullied struggled through tight quarters against the man's companions.

"To the Queen! _Protect the Queen_!"

The man advanced on her, confident in victory. Squirming away from him, her hand found a broken spear haft.

"When you meet your gods, dragon girl, tell them it is Shagga, son of Dolf who sent you," he growled in almost incomprehensible Common.

"Not today," she said, thrusting the pointed haft into the meat of his calf.

Roaring in pain like a wounded bear, Shagga lifted his axe. A heavy _thunk_ , a wet, tearing sound, and the dark red point of a spear emerged from Shagga's throat. He fell forward much like the tree, with a bone-jarring thud. Bloodied and panting, Storm-Son stood over her.

"Die like dog!" Storm-Son snarled, spitting on Shagga's twitching body.

"Your Grace? Are you all right?" Ser Jorah said, reaching down for her.

Daenerys accepted his hand up, feeling dazed. A quick glance around found her men standing on their own power. Jon bore a curled cut around his right eyebrow, a drop of blood trickling sluggishly down his temple. His gaze flickered up and down her form, assessing injury much as she had him.

"They're all dead?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Jorah said, a steadying hand on her arm.

"Let me up, Ser Jorah. The men need to see me," she said. Jon led her silver over to her by a handful of mane. Bareback would have to do.

"Here," Jon said, kneeling and offering his woven fingers as a stirrup. Daenerys braced her hand on his shoulder. Despite the situation, her mouth went dry with Jon so close. A quick toss, and she was astride.

A measure of calm settled over her. Mounted, she felt more assured, stronger. Nudging her silver back toward the sprawling column of her men, she shouted with all her strength: " _Fire and Blood_!" A rousing cry answered her in a half dozen languages.

"Fire and Blood!"

"Khaleesi!"

"Mhysa!"

Daenerys turned to her small council.

"Lord Tyrion sent runners to count the number of dead and injured. Sentries and archers are posted while we regroup. There will not be many casualties, I think. It was meant as a distraction. You were their target, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, sporting a large dent in the center of his breastplate.

"If not for Storm-Son, they very nearly succeeded," Jon said, sheathing the sword he carried with a trifle more force than necessary. 

Tyrion swung down from his mount and nudged Shagga's inert form with the toe of his boot. There was strange wistfulness to his expression.

"The hill tribes attacked the knights of the Vale much like this: indirect, swift, opportunistic. They will not attack again, I think, not when they've lost so many and we are on our guard. Shagga was a chief, we dealt them a serious blow. I never thought I'd see them here," he said. Bending, he pulled something from around Shagga's ruined throat. He produced a thick gold chain sticky with blood. Lannister gold.

"It seems my sister has bought their loyalty."

Daenerys scowled. Another weed of dissent growing in Westeros.

"Wonderful," she said, heavy with sarcasm, "we ride as soon as the injured are able. I would have them tended within the walls of Riverrun tonight."

 

They pressed on until long after sunset. Her muscles ached with the effort of staying upright. Bareback used more muscles than she was accustomed to, and for the sake of expedience, she did not send for her spare tack. Her silver's animal heat and steady presence was comforting. It was a calculated move as well. Her men would take strength from her example, and it would solidify respect amongst the Dothraki to see her maintaining her seat.

Daenerys was grateful for the close press of her men. In order to not advertise their presence, they lit no torches. Every snap of a twig or rustling leaf in the velvet dark stretched her nerves taut. Even the humming insects seemed too quiet. A thin fog crept ragged white fingers over the riverroad, the moon was a silver paring low on the horizon. The weight and warmth of her armor was reassuring as well.

Through a screen of trees, Daenerys saw the faint orange glow of torches. Ser Barristan marshalled a group of archers to march alongside their Unsullied honor guard. It was a large force, judging by the number of torches.

"There's a bridge over the Red Fork ahead, leading to Riverrun. If I were them, I'd cut us off at that bottleneck," Jon said in a low tone.

"Our numbers would mean nothing. A smaller force could hold us," she said.

"Aye," Jon said, hand on his sword hilt.

For what felt like the thousandth time, she cast her awareness out, searching for the warm glimmer of her children. Quiet darkness answered. They were flying far, hunting. Daenerys settled herself on her silver as they rounded the bend toward the bridge. A large armed force waited on the stone bridge, making no move to attack or retreat. As they drew near, Daenerys saw Robb Stark's smiling face. Relief flooded through her, she nearly melted.

"Welcome to Riverrun, Your Grace. Allow me to es--" his smile fell at the sight of their disheveled appearance.

"Was there trouble on the road?" he asked, handsome face creased in a frown.

"Hill tribesmen attacked us," Tyrion said.

A tall, square-jawed man with small dark eyes stepped forward, his scale armor gleaming in the torchlight.

"I must beg for your pardon, Your Grace. On behalf of House Tully and the Riverlands, I am ashamed. Fighting off savages at our very doorstep! I must--"

"That is quite all right, Lord Edmure. I am fighting a war, after all. A handful of tribesmen will not break us."

"Of course not, Your Grace. I never meant to imply such," Lord Edmure said, raking a hand through his thin auburn hair.

"I do have men injured beyond what my maester and healers can safely tend on the move. I would request your hospitality."

"Yes, right away. We will ride for Riverrun with all haste," Robb said, turning to mount his black destrier with smooth ease. Daenerys felt a moment of grudging respect. Despite his rank, despite the breadth of lands he ruled, he was dressed in the simple, finely made garb of a lord. Shouts echoed as both hosts prepared to move north of the riverroad to the castle grounds. They were able to resume travel without incident. Stark and Edmure Tully fell into step with her own entourage.

Beneath her, her silver shied hard, back-peddling and snorting. Daenerys kept her seat with some effort, tightening her legs around her silver's heaving ribs and her grip on the reins. In the wavering torchlight, she glimpsed an enormous smoke-grey wolf sitting near the road's edge. It watched her with intelligent yellow eyes. Gods, he stood to her stirrup at least! Heart in her throat, she glanced at Jon, who smiled.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. This is Grey Wind. There is no need to be frightened," Stark said, summoning his wolf with a low whistle. The wolf dismissed her and padded after his master.

"I have three dragons, Stark. I do not scare easily," she said dryly.

"Of course," Stark said. After a moment, he cleared his throat, "Will we be hosting them at Riverrun as well?"

His words were phrased politely, but she could hear the cringe behind them. Daenerys bit back her smile. No doubt he envisioned her children burning crops and slaughtering livestock.

"They are hunting tonight, Lord Stark. I will make sure they behave," she said. Robb Stark turned in saddle to find Jon.

"I can see you disobeyed me again, Snow," he said, the tone somewhere between exasperated and affectionate. Jon grinned. The cut to Jon's brow had been cleaned and smeared with salve, a curved mark around his right eye. The maester had said it would scar.

"It was in self-defense," he said. The flippant tone was as dismissive as a shrug. _Idiot man,_ she thought.

"I assure you, Stark, I have set my men aright as to where and when he may ride. It was not my intent to have him in harm's way," she said, in backhanded apology. Stark replied with a sunny smile. His charm was disarming, so different from Jon's aloof reserve.

"I have no doubt of it, Your Grace. As you said, you are fighting a war. I was under no illusion that he would be sipping tea by the fire. Sitting still isn't in him, anyway. That tells me a great deal about _you_ , though. If Jon trusts you, if Jon fights for you, then you've earned it."

Discomfited, she made no reply. A part of her was rejoicing at the thought of persuading Stark to swear his swords to her. Another part framed her infatuation with Jon in an unpleasant light. Would Jon think she'd seduced him to gain his brother's favor?

They mounted a gentle rise, hooves crunching on gravel.

"Your Grace, allow me to welcome to Riverrun," Lord Tully said, with a proud, expansive gesture.

The sandstone castle seemed to rise sheer out of the water. Fog lay thick on the surface of the river, so the castle seemed to be the only touchstone in a realm of dreams. The river murmured and chuckled, the air dense with the smell of water and growing things. High, sturdy walls of pale stone with ivy clinging in some places, its gates and walkways ablaze with light, drawbridge opened to them, it was a welcome sight for her weary party.

"A fine sight, Lord Tully, to be sure. I thank you for your welcome," she said. The elder lord preened at the compliment. Her manners would pay dividends later.

"Prepare yourself, Your Grace," Robb Stark said, "between my mother and my wife, you are about to be _smothered_ in hospitality."

 

Between Jon's description and her reputation as a protective mother and shrewd negotiator, Daenerys had expected something far different when meeting Catelyn Stark. Instead of a hard-nosed schemer, she was grace personified. Rosalin Stark, formerly Frey, took her cues from Catelyn during the lengthy process of seeing Daenerys' injured men housed, horses fed and camp set. Riverrun, though seat of a proud house, was not a large keep. Some of her men would have to camp outside the walls. It was the small hours of the night before she at last settled into her rooms.

"I must say, before I met Brienne, I would not know what to do with a woman in armor," Catelyn said, fingers deft on the lacings of Daenerys' bracers. Brienne--the sworn sword Jon had mentioned, was fetching their supper. Riverrun's servants had their hands full with two monarchs in addition to their lord. Rosalin had respectfully took her leave to attend her husband.

"As I said before, my lady, I have women who can attend to me," she said.

"They like you are weary from your journey. Please, it is my pleasure to assist you." _Her voice is pleasant,_ she thought, _soft but sturdy, like a wool coat._

It was a token protest; Daenerys knew Missandei was dead on her feet with weariness. After the battle and the long ride, she too was exhausted. From her toes to the roots of her hair, there was not a span of her that did not ache. Catelyn's calm, matter-of-fact presence was a balm.

"Will your son scold you for attending the enemy?" she said, her tone holding more sharpness than she intended. Catelyn's blue eyes were gentle and direct. She peeled the dragon bracer off and began on the other.

"I do not see you as an enemy. Your reputation proceeds you. My son tells me you wreak fire and blood upon your enemies. But--" a hint of a smile, "But you also care for innocent lives, that is why you have not moved on King's Landing. You do not fight unless engaged. You take hostages and treat them well. Men are cremated with honor under the colors of their house. By any measure that makes you a better ruler than Cersei, and a valuable ally for the North." Daenerys struggled against her fatigue, gathering her wits.

"It is no secret that I value innocents. I did not free the slaves of Essos for any gain. I freed them because all men _deserve_ freedom. Your enemies are also mine, Lady Stark. Your son and I are natural allies."

"A pity I bartered a trade with Walder Frey. A marriage between you and Robb would unite Westeros," Catelyn said. Daenerys exhaled a soft snort of laughter.

"A pity," she echoed, feeling a pang at the thought of Jon. She had formally dismissed him to spend time with his brothers. There would be no long talks by the fire or games of _cyvasse_. She felt the lack of his watchful, brooding presence.

"I must thank you for leaving me my lastborn, Your Grace," Catelyn said, setting aside the last of her armor and beginning the tedious work of unwinding and combing her sweat-damp mane.

"I know your advisors no doubt suggested Ned Stark's youngest son would be a better hostage, and you chose Jon Snow. As a mother, I thank you. Rickon has suffered far too much." The echo said she had suffered much as well, with the loss of her husband and daughters. The thought of Brandon Stark tickled the back of her mind.

"Jon Snow has proven a worthy warrior, in addition to my guest." Daenerys strove to keep her tone neutral, despite how she rankled on Jon's behalf. This woman had been very cruel to him, through no fault of his own. _But then, she and Ned Stark were said to have a strong and loving bond. How would it feel if my beloved husband were to bring home a babe he'd sired by another woman to raise alongside the one I carried?_

Any further conversation was interrupted by Brienne ducking through the doorway, clad in polished steel armor. Robb had no formal Kingsguard or any counterpart aside from his Winterfell men, but Brienne was his mother's sworn sword.

"I must apologize, Lady Targaryen. There was only mutton stew left in the kitchens," Brienne said.

Stubbornly, Brienne only acknowledged Robb as king. It prickled her temper, but for the sake of their alliance, she could not correct her. The fragrant scent of the stew softened her temper. Her stomach reminded her just how long it had been since her last meal.

"Mutton will do, my _lady_ ," she said with a faint emphasis on the title she detested. A hint of humor warmed Brienne's blue eyes.

Catelyn finished combing her hair and Daenerys tucked into her mutton with alacrity. Chunks of potato and carrot with a hint of a texture, the broth rich with fresh herbs, the bread peppered with seeds . . . the meal was delightful after weeks of camp fare. Hot food filled all the cold, creaking places in her.

"I thank you for your kindness ladies. I believe I will seek my bed," she said, rising on shaky legs. Weariness made the edges of her vision waver.

"Of course, Your Grace. Tomorrow we must plan the details of the banquet," Catelyn said with a warm smile.

"Banquet?" she repeated.

"Yes, King Robb wishes to throw a banquet in your honor. Perhaps a tournament as well," Brienne said. Daenerys frowned. The stop at Riverrun was meant to be a brief one, it was still a long march to Casterly Rock. A week of feasting and jousting would lead to an unacceptable delay. Ravens from Grey Worm said he had consolidated control over Lannisport and succeeded in breeching the castle, though the garrison had retreated to the keep and the fighting was fierce. Payne was an able commander, it seemed.

"I will consult with my small council in the morning," she hedged.

"I bid you goodnight then, Your Grace," Catelyn said with a curtsey, Brienne followed with a bow.

As the heavy redwood door closed behind them, Daenerys heaved a sigh. Solitude when found was brief, but precious. The room she had been given was spacious, with a long terrace overlooking the river. The screens were drawn against the creeping chill.

"A bloody tournament. Does his wolf dance a jig too?" she muttered, blowing out the tapers.

The bed was massive affair with carved posts and a wool stuffed mattress. The coverlets were finely woven with river scenes, the embroidery in the house colors of blue and red vibrant under her fingertips. Daenerys collapsed into its welcome softness and the soft murmur of the river sang her to a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

In what felt like a finger-snap, Missandei's soft voice drew her from the soft oblivion of sleep. She cracked open one eyelid to find her haloed by a soft grey sky. They had beat the rain at least.

"There is a bath and breakfast for you, Your Grace," she said. Daenerys groaned in reply, loath to part with downy comfort of the bed. Only the prospect of a proper bath wooed her. The water was hot and plentiful, made even more pleasant by the cool air wafting in from the river terrace.

Once she'd broken her fast, Missandei pinned her hair. On the bed she'd laid a wool gown for her in soft grey-blue, black embroidery marched down the sleeves in neat geometric patterns, the skirts falling in a soft cascade. Daenerys smoothed the fabric between her fingers with a smile. It had been months since she'd last worn anything other than riding leathers and armor. As Missandei laced her corset, the nostalgia dissipated. There were some benefits to riding clothes.

Outside her room, the two knights of her Queensguard conferred in soft tones, looking up at her exit.

"Seek your bed, Ser Jorah. Ser Barristan will see to me today," she said, seeing the weariness stamped in his lined face.

"Thank you, khaleesi," he said with a bow.

As they made their way through Riverrun's winding passages to the great hall, Ser Barristan briefed her on the status of camp and any ravens scrolls that needed her attention. Two men had died from their wounds in the night, there was an outbreak of dysentery due to untreated river water, a raven scroll from Greyjoy detailing the garrison of Dragonstone, another describing the chaos in the Stormlands, and twenty horses lame after the hard march. That, coupled with the sundry issues of running a military camp: rations, arms and armor, housing and guard rotation for captives.

"The small council has gathered, yes?" she said.

"Aye, Your Grace."

 

Two guardsmen with fish leaping on their helms opened the double doors of the great hall at their approach. The hall was arrayed with a great table along the northern wall, where Lord Tully and his family took their meals and met with petitioners. Now the cavernous room was crammed cheek by jowl with long tables, but to house her men, or in preparation for the supposed tournament, she wasn't sure.

Her small council broke their fast at one of the tables and spoke in low tones. Irritatingly, she saw two Winterfell stewards attending them. It was a hospitable gesture, but Daenerys rankled. Were they birds for Stark's own spies? At the sight of her, her men rose and bowed. Daenerys took her seat at the head of the table.

"What's this about Stark hosting a tournament in my honor?" she asked. Tyrion chewed his bacon and cleared his throat.

"It is customary to hold tournaments in celebration. In this case to celebrate our alliance with the Starks."

"We do not have time for pageantry, Lord Hand," she said, accepting the cup of watered wine offered her, her eyes flicking to the retreating Winterfell stewards.

"I would counsel to tread carefully, Your Grace. Robb Stark holds the Riverlands, the North and the Vale, three of the seven kingdoms you wish to rule. It would not be wise to alienate him," Tyrion said.

"Stark seems to be a reasonable man. He surrendered to me, after all," she said with a hint of a smile, "this tournament is a wasteful misuse of time and funds. Time and funds that will only grow more scarce as winter comes."

"Northern rider wants to give khaleesi gifts and feasting, this is good," Kovarro said as he crunched on an apple.

"Aye, Your Grace. I would say let Stark throw his tournament. It cements our alliance, gives the men and smallfolk some sport. It's good for morale," Ser Barristan said.

"Not the words of an old knight remembering his glory days?" she asked with some sharpness. A smile quivered beneath Ser Barristan's white beard, though his words were earnest: "No, Your Grace. I give only my honest word."

"I have no doubt of that," she said. Leaning back in her chair she heaved a sigh.

"Very well. Lord Tyrion give Stark our answer. The tournament may go on, but only three days."

"Three days, khaleesi? Even the poorest dothrakaan celebrates his wedding feast with five days of games," Rakharo said.

"Three days, _Qoy Qoyi._ No more. Then we ride for Casterly Rock, hopefully with Stark swords at our backs," she said.

"Consider it done. And who knows, Your Grace? You might even have a little fun," Tyrion said.

Valyrian translation: Jurnegon hen, Jelmazmo, 'Watch out, Stormborn!'

 


	8. Part VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tourney of Riverrun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since AO3 will have downtime tomorrow, you guys get your update early! Enjoy!

Part VIII 

 

"Let the tournament commence!" Lord Tully said, glittering in his scale armor. A gust of cool autumn wind blew, tangling Lord Tully's cloak woven in the bright colors of his house around his legs. Lord Tully stumbled, and behind him his uncle Brynden Tully scoffed. The assemblage of combatants, spectators, and smallfolk cheered despite the gaffe. On this the third day of the tourney, Daenerys relished the thought of competition. Day one had been the melee, a near-disaster when Westerosi knights clashed with Dothraki riders. Drink and feasting had smoothed the rough edges, and day two had been a spectacular contest in archery. Today, joust, sword-on-foot and spear-on-foot awaited them.

From her place between Lord Tully and Robb Stark, the tourney grounds spread out beneath them. Soft in autumn sunshine, bustling with activity lay a jousting pitch and a ring for sword and spear matches. Jugglers and dancers wove through the crowds, hawkers declaimed the quality of their wares, the crisp air rich with the scents of cooking food, horses, and fresh-turned earth. The air felt charged with anticipation, and Daenerys had since recanted her earlier reluctance. _My people deserve some revelry and spectacle. The world will be there to conquer tomorrow._  

Daenerys smoothed the folds of her gown, a wool dyed a soft red and trimmed with deep nut brown. Missandei had woven a golden ribbon through her braid near her crown to the base of her head, her lower layers falling in a loose silver tumble. Her brown cloak was pinned with a three-headed dragon pin at her shoulder. Butter soft brown boots made her feel capable as well as feminine.

Lord Tully took his seat at her side as a steward began rattling off the proposed matches and combatants. Daenerys admired the banners lining the pitch, vibrant with colors of dozens of houses. The Dothraki and Unsullied voiced their wish to ride and Daenerys had sigils crafted. Flying beneath her red dragon, the Dothraki sigil was a golden horse on a field of black, the Unsullied, three black spears above a broken chain on a dark blue field.

"I must apologize, Your Grace. It is a small affair, but this is all I could muster on such time constraints." If it was a veiled comment on her limiting the tourney, she allowed it to slide.

"No apology is necessary, Lord Tully. I appreciate the effort made on our behalf, and am honored by the company," she said.

"I imagine it is not as exotic as some of your previous entertainments, Your Grace," Rosalin Stark said, pink under her concentrated scrutiny. Her roseleaf complexion was quite fetching in the Stark's somber colors. White wolves leapt down the smoke grey sleeves of her dress.

"Much more to my taste, I assure you, Lady Stark."

"Is it true men fight to the death against bears in Essos?" Rickon Stark asked, looking up from where he sat beside his black direwolf.

"Rickon!" Catelyn Stark said with an apologetic glance. Daenerys was unable to completely stifle her smile.

"I never heard of a fighting match against bears, but men do fight to the death in Meereen. It is considered a great honor. Smallfolk and great houses alike protested when I ended the practice."

"Barbarians," Lord Tully said, mouth twisted as if he bitten a lemon.

There was an uncomfortable silence. To her left, Rakharo stood, adjusting the gold medallions around his waist.

"I will prepare for the match unless you have need of me, blood of my blood," he said, with only a trace of an accent.

A glance at Lord Tully found him red-faced and sweating in his armor. Daenerys said no words to accuse or pardon, letting the silence draw out like a blade.

"Ride well, _Qoy Qoyi_ ," Daenerys said. Rakharo's swagger was undiminished as he swung off the platform and marched to where the horses were tethered.

Tyrion made his way up the steps, whistling and nodding to Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan. Painted acrobats danced across the fresh-raked dirt of the jousting pitch behind him. Ruffling Rickon's hair in casual friendliness--and a pointed prod at Lady Catelyn--he moved to the table and poured a cup of wine.

"You'll be happy to know that at today's end you will be a richer woman. What did I miss?" he said, taking his seat to her right.

"Richer, Lord Tyrion?" she asked with an arched brow. Tyrion gestured with a flourish.

"I am a keen judge of character, as you know, and have made several friendly wagers on who will win various matches."

There was a palpable thawing of the air as the gathered assemblage warmed to the topic.

"The joust should prove interesting. Smalljon is riding for House Umber, Donnel Waynwood of Ironoaks, Ceryn Flint of Widow's Watch, and then Uncle Blackfish said he would try his hand," Lord Tully said quietly.

"Does this bring back memories, Ser Barristan?" Catelyn asked. Clad in his shining black armor chased in gold, the older knight smiled.

"Indeed, my lady. I've seen many a tourney in my days."

"With your experience, be sure to tell me your opinion of the field," Tyrion said.

"I would keep your eye on Jon," Robb Stark said, "We once had a running bet for a silver stag who would get knocked off after a run at the quintain. We stopped counting after thirty clean runs."

Daenerys' eyes wandered to the field, searching for Jon's dark head amongst the throng. A new tension settled in her belly. Stark would not see his brother ride ill-fitted, would he? Flint could run a clean stride, that would help at least.

"And how many runs were you able to make, Lord Stark?" Tyrion asked.

"Twenty-seven, then the sack hit me square between the shoulders," he said, without missing a beat. There was a ripple of polite laughter, Rosalin patting his hand in a consolatory gesture. 

"I'm looking forward to sword-on-foot. It was difficult to convince the Dothraki to use blunted weapons, and they refused to use armor at all," Daenerys said. _They must learn that the world I intend to build holds those different than them._ Tyrion caught her eye and grinned.

"And what of the . . . Unspoiled?" Lady Catelyn asked.

"Unsullied," Daenerys corrected with some irritation, "To my knowledge, they have refused to joust, though I am confident they will sweep the spear matches."

Beneath the genial mask of sportsmanship, Daenerys sensed an undercurrent of tension. The Westerosi men were threatened by the ones they saw as barbarians: former slaves, eunuchs, exiles. In revelry perhaps they could forge bonds between them. 

A bugle sounded, rich and strident as the acrobats were led off the pitch. Pages rushed onto the rich brown dirt and raked it smooth. Two dragon-breathers glad in painted leather jerkins danced to stand at the foot of the platform. By unspoken signal, they held their slender torches to their lips and _blew_. Fire burst in a spectacular orange bloom, dying away with a crackle of multicolored sparks. Rickon gasped in delight, clapping fervently.

"How wonderful, Lord Tully!" Rosalin breathed. The dragon-breathers bowed, offering sooty smiles. Tyrion flicked each of them a gold dragon, caught and secreted away with deft fingers.

A steward in Tully colors marched onto the pitch and announced the first joust.

"Approaching the pitch is Lord Dayne of House Whent riding against Ser Ceryn Flint of Widow's Watch!"

Around her, the conversation ebbed and flowed. Daenerys sat at attention. She had seen battle, had seen bloody contests from Dothraki weddings, Qartheen councils, Meereenese fighting pits. Never had she seen a true Westerosi joust. The knights squared off on opposite ends of the pitch, armor gleaming in the sunlight. Lord Dayne's battered armor bore a shield of his house on the left arm, nine black bats on a yellow field. Their lances were painted in the colors of their house, some twined with ribbons or charms from their chosen ladies.

A ripple of a page's flag in Tully colors, and the men thundered across the field. Their painted lances were couched neat. Dayne lost his stirrup for a moment, the tip of his lance wobbled, but quickly righted. With startling speed, the lances struck home with a crack like thunder. Lord Dayne was rocked back in his saddle, splinters of wood flying everywhere. Ser Flint took a more glancing blow, Lord Dayne's lance only cracked. Daenerys sat tense in her seat, almost feeling the impact herself.

"The lances are not battle-ready, instead they're blunted and made of soft wood so they will shatter on impact. The joust is about skill, not brutality," Robb Stark said, almost wistfully. It went unspoken that kings could not joust. A vital young man, she did not doubt that he was tempted to borrow a hedge knight's armor and enter anyway.

"Boys with sticks," Lady Catelyn said with a dry, commiserating tone. Daenerys chuckled.

The excitement of the joust did not wane with repetition. She watched avidly as Lord Dayne upset Ser Ceryn, then Smalljon bested first Ser Meryn Blackwood and then Willem of House Forrester. Each time the horses leapt forward and the jousters clashed with an explosion of splinters she felt such a rush of exhilaration. Dancers capered in between matches, along with jesters and their japes. The smallfolk laughed in delight, waving ribbons and flags for their favored winners. Smalljon Umber played to the crowd, crowing and cheering as he galloped down the pitch.

"Now for the first match of sword-on-foot, Jon Snow of House Stark against Ha--against Hrazzo of the Dothraki."

Those on the pavilion shifted to view the raked ring to the left, blocked off by a low fence. Jon marched into the ring, wearing his studded leather jerkin and no helm. Daenerys's heart leapt to her throat. Hrazzo was one of Aggo's lieutenants, as tall as Drogo had been, and liked wielding two _arakhs_. His black braid fell to mid-chest. 

"What is that idiot doing?" Tyrion said under his breath. _Fool man!_

"Seven hells, Snow. What are you _doing_?" Robb Stark said. Daenerys said nothing, eyes fastened to Jon, knuckles white on the arms of her chair.

Hrazzo took his position opposite Jon. He threw back his head and shrieked; it was a shrill, undulating scream typical of Dothraki, meant to strike fear in their foes. Jon remained composed, waiting for the signal.

"He's in the left inside guard," Robb Stark said, "Good against a taller opponent."

"He's forgone armor, but whether it's out of a misplaced sense of fair play or for sheer speed we will find out," Lord Tully said.

The flag dropped. Hrazzo led with a heavy overhand blow. Jon danced back, ducking the slashing blow that followed. Daenerys tried not to blink. It didn't help to know the weapons were blunted, they could still break bones, tear skin if they struck unguarded flesh.

"Remind me, Lord Stark. What does it take to win a match of sword-on-foot?" she asked in an even tone. Not taking his eyes from where Jon and Hrazzo danced, Stark said: "To win, Jon needs to disarm this big beast of a man. How do you say his name?"

Jon parried a blow with silvery clash of steel, the two muscling for control between their crossed blades. Hrazzo twisted, knocking Jon with the butt of his _arakh_. Jon staggered back and shot Hrazzo a smirk from a bleeding lip.

" _Hrazzo_ ," Daenerys repeated, emphasizing the first syllable with a thick sound in the back of her throat. Jon jumped back and smacked Hrazzo hard across the belly with the flat of his sword. Hrazzo grunted and grinned at Jon, swinging both _arakhs_ in a neat circle.

"Hrazzo," Stark repeated, "he can disarm him twice, or knock him to the dirt. It cannot be a simple fall; he must be knocked down."

Jon ducked under Hrazzo's blow, the blade seemed close enough to part his wild hair. He came up sharp, elbowed Hrazzo in the gut. Hrazzo raised his _arakh_ to strike Jon with the staff end. Jon struck, cracking the taller man hard in the jaw with his sword pommel. Hrazzo staggered with the ponderous grace of a felled tree, sprawling insensate in the dirt.

As the men erupted in applause, Daenerys release the breath she didn't know she was holding. The page lifted Jon's arm in victory. Tyrion smirked at her.

"I was right to add another couple dragons on our dear hostage," he said.

"Indeed," she said, a smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

The matches continued, jousts interspersed with sword and spear matches. Rakharo bested a Riverland knight, and then an Unsullied captain in the sword-on-foot. Predictably, her Unsullied did very well with spear-on-foot, though a Reed lord ranked third. Near midday Missandei accompanied by several Riverrun servants circulated, offering platters of roast turkey to dip in spicy brown mustard, grilled vegetables dripping with butter, or toasted sweet rolls with honey. Even as the day waned, the sky remained clear, only a few high clouds blocking the sunshine.

Jon rode in the joust, besting the then-favorite Donnel Waynwood, among several others. His armor was plain iron plate, a bit battered, but finely made. His mount Flint rode the joust as if he'd been born to it.

"How exciting!" Rosalin said, clapping. Daenerys, who was deep in conversation with Tyrion turned as Missandei poured her a cup of hot tea. The north wind, cold and bracing, was blowing steadily. The tea helped light a fire in her belly.

"I beg your pardon, my lady?" Daenerys asked. Robb Stark grinned.

"The final joust will be between two northmen. Smalljon and _our_ Jon," he said.

Daenerys leaned forward in her chair as they two men took their places. Umber loomed, his mount was fittingly massive to bear his weight, the large bay pawing and snorting in eagerness to run. Flint blew, skin quivering with eagerness. Jon held the lance easily, his posture composed. The flag flew. Flint broke cleanly off the start, lunging with powerful strides. Smalljon's lance was aimed square, Jon's was higher. If Jon struck Smalljon in the helm, or unhorsed him, he won in one pass.

"Come on, Snow. I've too much coin riding on this," Tyrion muttered. Umber's horse stumbled. Daenerys bit her lip to stifle her gasp.

Jon's lance thrust and with a crash splintered against Smalljon's plated torso. Umber's lance flew wide, and unbalanced, he fell to the dirt with a thud. The cheers quenched as if strangled when Smalljon didn't immediately rise. Jon reached him first, swinging off Flint. His father Greatjon and their maester from Winterfell followed close. Shoving up his visor, Jon craned his head to listen for Smalljon's voice. Daenerys realized she was on her feet, rapt at the drama unfolding. Relief rushed through her when she heard the faint gruff rumble of the northman's voice, and Jon broke into a broad smile. Rising, Jon said, "Lord Umber says 'two out of three!'"

The crowd relaxed into laughter and a smattering of applause. The noise rose to cheers as Smalljon staggered to his feet, raising Jon's arm.

" _Glory to the North and the house of Stark!"_ Smalljon shouted, teeth reddened with blood. The crowd went mad shouting and whistling. Not to be outdone, Rakharo trotted onto the pitch astride his black.

"Honor to Daenerys of the Dragon Tent!" he said, raising his _arakh_. Almost in one voice the men and women echoed Rakharo and Smalljon with the words of both houses. Daenerys' heart swelled _. This is a better world._ Robb Stark stood, raising his hands to calm the crowd.

"Don't forget to cheer today's champion, Jon Snow of House Stark!" he said. The cheers were deafening. As the shouts died away, a voice cried: "Crown your queen!" The smallfolk took up the chant until from every side were echoes of 'crown your queen.'

"Queen?" Daenerys asked. Stark leaned close to speak over the noise, grinning.

"In Westeros, there is a tradition that the winner of the tournament crowns his Queen of Love and Beauty. Usually a sweetheart or wife," he said, lips brushing her ear.

Daenerys swallowed hard, a cold knot settled in the pit of her stomach. Who would Jon crown? To crown her would sow dissent amongst the northern lords. For his part, Jon's expression was inscrutable as he mounted Flint and accepted the crown of roses from the Tully steward. It was a beautiful garland, woven of softly opened red roses twined with lilac blooms. He urged Flint toward the platform and dismounted. Daenerys saw his free hand flex and relax and knew he was caught up in some deep emotion.

Rosalin and Lady Stark came to stand on either side of her. The stands were packed with ladies from three of the seven kingdoms, yet Jon was intent on the platform. Daenerys' heart thudded. Jon's sable eyes were blazing, intent on her. She could see the scab at the corner of his mouth from the fight against Hrazzo, and the fresh scar curled around his right eye. Clad in battered armor, the intense focus of his gaze, the hot male stink of his sweat--not to mention seeing him winded from recent fighting--Daenerys felt heat pool between her thighs. On the last step of the platform, Jon creaked to one knee at her feet.

"For you, Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of Love and Beauty." His voice was rough.

Daenerys kept her face composed, though even from the platform there were mutters from the riverlords on the 'presumption of a bastard.' Low murmurs rippled through the crowd. Jon held up the garland, eyes pleading. Daenerys accepted the garland and donned it. The heavy perfume made her head swim.

"To the Queen of Love and Beauty and our tournament champion!" Robb Stark said, raising both her and Jon by the arm. Looking into Jon's eyes, she couldn't help but wonder how the events of the Tourney of Riverrun would ripple throughout Westeros.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So Dany is Queen of Love and Beauty! Up next, the long-awaited Jon POV chapter. I've been blown away by the response to this fic. Thanks everyone for reading!


	9. Part IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The feasting begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut.

Part IX

 

"Need a hand, Snow?" Ser Jorah asked in his rough burr. Sheepish, Jon set down the comb. The polished tin that he used to shave offered a blurred reflection of his own scowling face, the scar on his eye a scabbed crust. He touched his tongue to the inside of his lower lip. Hrazzo's gift had healed at least. Ghost's ears pricked at the disturbance, watchful red eyes following his movements. The direwolf lay beside Jon's camp bed in the cramped room given to him, across the hall from Ser Jorah's quarters. The knight rarely slept there, he and Ser Barristan took shifts on guard duty.

"Aye," Jon said, shrugging his shoulders beneath the tight tunic, "I'm not used to being trussed up." Robb sent him clothes in their house colors of grey and white to wear with his gorget of direwolves etched into the steel. As tournament champion, he must look his best.

"No masques at Winterfell?" Ser Jorah said, thick fingers surprisingly deft as they combed back hanks of Jon's unruly hair.

"We have feasts, but no masques. I'd prefer to be back on the tourney grounds," he said. Even if it wasn't Longclaw, training with a sword felt good. The Valyrian steel sword in question leaned against the wall, the white wolf snarling on the pommel.

A couple tugs and the black curls that hung in his face were tied back to a hard knot at the back of his head, bound by a leather thong. Ser Jorah dismissed him with a gruff pat on the shoulder. For his part, Ser Jorah looked fine in his black armor. The queen's guard wore her house color of black instead of the traditional white. Jon mused it might make it easier to tell them apart when they met Lannister Kingsguard in battle.

"That'll do. For what it's worth, I despise feasts. Though we must do as our queen commands. I'll be in the hall," he said.

"I'll be down in a moment," Jon said, scrutinizing his reflection. Lady Stark, if she noticed him at all, would want him as close to perfect as he could be. Another, secret thought pointed out he wanted Daenerys to appreciate his effort. His Queen of Love and Beauty. Exhaling an irritated breath, he rose and paced from wall to wall.

"I'm being bloody ridiculous," he said to Ghost, "I'm just a bastard, and she . . . and she--" He broke off and heaved a sigh.

"Wish me luck, Ghost," he said, scratching the direwolf behind his ears.

The hall was packed with people, bards playing drums, dulcimer, and flutes. The braziers and press of bodies made the air stifling, dense with sweat and heavy scents of food. Voices competed with the music in volume and Jon cast a longing glance toward the door leading to the terrace. The quiet murmur of the river and cool fresh air would be welcome. Jon leaned against the wall, content to watch.

Lord Tully had outdone himself with the banquet. A whole roast boar lorded over the table, two apples in its mouth. The trestle table groaned with dishes: mashed tuber dripping with butter, prawns and crayfish fresh from the river, a peacock fried and redressed with its own feathers, loaves of steaming bread, and a cake topped with a figure of a leaping fish in spun sugar, its sculpted scales gleaming in the candlelight. The rich smells reminded him how long it had been since the turkey leg after the tourney.

His gaze wandered over the packed tables. Servants wove in and out of the rows, serving wine and food. Smalljon sat with his father and the small but imposing form of Lyanna Mormont at one table, regaling them with tales of the tourney. He caught Jon's eye and toasted him with his mug. Occasionally Jon saw a shuttered glance, heard a faint murmur amongst the northern and riverlords. His win and his crowning had been unpopular, but underneath that was a deeper distrust of Daenerys and her men. Wisely, they held their peace for the victory feast.

The men from Winterfell sat at another table, Daenerys' Unsullied honor guard in gleaming armor at another, her Dothraki swaggering about in leathers and gold armbands, the Blackfish and Ser Davos stood deep in conversation with Brienne in one corner.

At the great table sat Lord Tully, Lady Stark, Rickon, Robb, and Lady Rosalin. Robb wore a similar tunic much better than he, laughing at something Lord Tully said. Rickon looked as solemn and serious as Father in his feastday finery. And Daenerys . . . Jon's mouth went dry. Gods!

Daenerys wore a white gown bound by a black iron torq around her neck, gathered again in what looked like a black chain around her waist. _Breaker of Chains._ A calculated move to show Westeros she was a liberator. A white cloak lined with fur lay draped across her shoulders. Her hair hung in waves of loose silver, save for twin braids at her crown.

The look was as striking as it was stirring. Jon's palms felt damp, a flush of arousal rising like a low fever. His mouth watered at the memory of her taste; his cock twitched in his trousers. Jon shifted uncomfortably. Unlike his riding leathers, any condition of that sort would be obvious in his feastday clothes. Did her hair smell like roses and lilacs? _Pine all you want, Snow. A woman like her does not dally with a man like you, no matter how many tourneys you win._

Robb's voice broke his reverie: "To the Starks and Targaryens! May we have a long and prosperous friendship!" A raucous cheer filled the hall. Men toasted with their mugs, trying to outdo their neighbors in volume. Jon joined his voice to their cries, shouting the words of his own house, and hers too.

" _Winter is Coming_!"

" _Fire and Blood_!"

"Honor to the North!"

"Khaleesi!"

Not to be outdone, Daenerys rose, smoothing the silk of her white gown. Jon averted his eyes. Seven hells, that bloody gown was almost sheer! Any man who looked could see the shape of her, ripe and curved . . .  

Her voice ran clear and strong: "Westeros has suffered for far too long. Suffered war, injustice, betrayal. I offer a new beginning. I will bring peace, justice, and serve in good faith. To the Starks and Targaryens!" she said, raising her cup. The cheer was deafening. A wise move, he thought. She'd proven her words through battle and blood. No man of the north could say all she offered were pretty words. Even if northern men balked at seeing her crowned, maybe . . .  

"Jon! Jon Snow! Come dine with us!" Ser Rodrik said, waving him over to a table to Winterfell men.

"As long as you promise not to bore us with the story of the Battle of the Bells again," he said, grinning. There was a ripple of laughter as he straddled the bench between Brendyn Caston one of the men-at-arms, and Jory's young cousin Talen.

"After today you have enough to tell us. Besides, Brienne says you have your own tales of battle," Rodrik said, offering him a mug of ale. A passing servant dished thick slabs of roast boar with a dollop of plum sauce on his trencher, along with tubers and turnip greens. His mouth watered at the savory scent.

"Robb gave me a scalping for it, but aye," Jon said, tucking into the food with alacrity. After weeks of camp food--fare prepared for speed and nourishment but not taste, the tender boar that almost melted on his tongue was like heaven.

"You rode for the dragon queen, Snow?" Brendyn said, incredulous.

"Against _Lannisters_. It was the fastest way to end the battle," he said. It rested on his tongue to say how valiant she was, how worthy.

"Any day we can kill Lannister men is a good one," Ser Rodrik said, stroking his whiskers.

"I heard tell that you captured Kevan Lannister on the field," Brendyn said, words heavy with suspicion. Jon shrugged, the short collar of his tunic felt like it was strangling him. He was rarely center of attention, and thus it made him deeply uncomfortable.

His gaze wandered again to the great table. Robb pecked a kiss on his wife's cheek. Lady Stark petted Rickon's hair in passing. Daenerys leaned close to listen something Tyrion said. Gods, she looked so lovely it hurt. Deep inside he felt a familiar pang. A bastard's life, standing on the edge, looking in and longing for more.

"Come on, Snow! Tell us what happened!" Brendyn said. Jon tore off a hunk of dark seeded bread to sop up the last of the plum sauce.

"Ser Kevan led the vanguard. I rode with the Dothraki bloodriders and hamstrung his horse. It didn't take much," he said, burying his nose in his ale.

"Dothraki screamers, eh? Are they as great of warriors as they say?" Ser Rodrik asked.

"Aye, you saw them today. Bloody fierce. And _fast_ ," Jon said, remembering Rakharo's grinning glee as he dismembered a Lannister man-at-arms with wicked speed. Aggo said Hrazzo was a demon with his twin _arakhs_.

"I'd say he's lucky to be in one piece. She is the Mad King's daughter, after all. You heard what the septon said, she burns her enemies alive with those mad beasts of hers!" 

"Spreading Winter Town pillow talk, Talen?" Ser Talhart said from across the table.

The men guffawed and slapped Talen good-naturedly on the shoulders. As their mirth ebbed and the servants made another round with fresh ale, Jon mustered his reply.

"She's not so bad," Jon said, careful not to look again. A bastard couldn't presume to look to long, or too often. Old gods help him; he was drawn to her.

"Aye, you must be smitten naming her Queen of Love and Beauty," Brendyn said, heavy with suspicion.

"Who was I supposed to crown, Caston? Hmm? No other lady would bear being crowned by a bastard. Lady Stark? She despises me, and Lady Rosalin is my brother's wife! If I crowned either one, Robb would skin me alive," Jon said, stifling the impulse to tug at his collar to relieve the flush.

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," Ser Talhart said sagely. The other men nodded, stroking their beards.

"But the dragon girl is treating you well then, Snow?" Ser Rodrik said with all seriousness.

"Aye, I've been treated well. I'm surprised Robb hasn't sent you or Brienne down to see for yourselves."

"Wildling raids have been giving us trouble. Barely a fortnight ago, they nearly took Shadow Tower," one man Jon didn't recognize chimed in across the table.

"The Greatjon called back some of his men to reinforce Last Hearth and send relief to the Watch," Ser Rodrik said with a nod. It was a northman's duty after all, to repulse the savages from beyond the wall. As grateful as he was for the change in subject, Jon felt his stomach turn. The weeks he spent spying on Mance for the Watch at the behest of Qhorin Halfhand always raised a welter of conflicted feelings.

"I hear you've tangled with one of them before, Snow. The big red-haired brute? Giantsbone? Rattleskin?" Talen said, scratching his patchy black beard.

"Giantsbane, idiot. Tormund Giantsbane," Brendyn said. Jon's jaw clenched.

"Aye, I did. A brutal warrior. Did he fall?" Jon asked.

"An understatement, Snow. We had him pinned and he tore a man's throat out with his teeth! Slipped away in the night like a wildling coward. If it wasn't for Osha, I'd think they were all beasts," Ser Rodrik said.

"Aye, Osha saved Lord Rickon's life. Lord Branden too," one man said.

Jon let the words wash over him. Tormund had become a friend, but then Jon had returned to the Watch and they'd met again as enemies. Jon swore he would never turn his cloak again. Swearing to Robb had been as easy as breathing. Fighting for his home and his family took no thought, no conflict.

It wasn't until Daenerys Stormborn landed in Westeros and demanded a hostage that Jon again questioned his loyalty. He was of the North, to the bone, to the marrow. And yet . . . the thought of allowing her to come to harm while he still had breath in his body made him sick. _I will not forswear myself again. I am the son of Eddard Stark._

"--And then the ravens swept down and pecked out their eyes!" Talen said.

"What's that now, Tal?" Jon asked. The younger man grinned, pleased to impart fresh gossip.

"One of Greatjon's stewards heard from a guard who heard from a Night's Watch brother that while on patrol, he saw ravens fly out of a wierwood heart tree and peck out the eyes of a pack of wildlings about to ambush! Mad, right?" This was met with broad skepticism.  

"You're soft in the head!"

"Next you'll tell us you're really a Pentosi prince!"

But Jon wondered. Among the Free folk, there were men and women who could warg. And Sam had said he'd seen Bran beyond the Wall riding a snow bear--he trusted Sam with his life. Bran would protect the Night's Watch if he saw them. There was no way for him to know Jon had ridden south to find Robb. The last Bran knew was that Winterfell was in ashes and Robb as good as dead, surrounded by enemies in the south. Maybe he could send a raven north to Sam, then . . .

The tenor of the music changed to a lively tune. Blinking, Jon saw tables had been cleared for dancing. Jon said his goodbyes among the Winterfell men and threaded his way through the crowd. The flute sang high, and he recognized the strains of _Hands of Gold_. The bard's smooth voice joined the clear echo of the flute for the chorus: " _For hands of gold are always cold/But a woman's hands are warm!/_ _For hands of gold are always cold/But a woman's hands are warm!"_

As respective monarchs, Robb led Daenerys through the first dance. Rings of dancers stood, spiraling inward and ducking beneath a pair joined arms. Jon watched, transfixed as she stumbled through the first ring, her rich bray of laughter ringing in the air. By the second she found her footing, and Robb's open face showed his pleasure and admiration _._

_They make a fine pair._ Indeed, Daenerys' moonspun fairness matched Robb's ruddy Tully looks. Each were well-formed, erudite, beloved by their people. As much as he loved his brother, Jon wished he could hate him in that moment. Goodhearted, honest Robb, the trueborn son once again outmaneuvering the bastard. He remembered how Robb had leaned close to whisper in Daenerys's ear, how gentle his hands were when he touched her. Jon's fists flexed. 

Daenerys wanted the North, and joining Robb's kingdom to hers through marriage was a masterstroke--one he was certain Tyrion had thought of. It was a simple, though potentially unpopular, thing to annul Robb's childless marriage to Rosalin Frey. The Targaryens were a powerful house, and the Lannisters were too far away and spread too thin to aid the Freys if they sought to turn their cloaks. Their only possible ally in the north, the Dreadfort, had fallen to the Starks years ago. Robb marched north and discovered Ramsay Snow razing Winterfell. Robb had executed Ramsay himself.

Kisses did not win wars, and a bastard made a poor consort to a queen. Hot emotion boiled up in his gut, rage or jealousy or lust, he couldn't name it. All he knew was that if watched for one more heartbeat, he'd explode. Snagging a flagon of ale, he shouldered his way out of the great hall.

The terrace was barred to him as pairs of lovers took the air, guards and servants milled in the bailey, so up he climbed. The top of Riverrun's battlements was blessedly cold and quiet. An occasional bowman or guard patrolled, but he was left to his thoughts and his ale. Jon breathed in a lungful of fresh, icy air, tasting the river and a hint of snow. He leaned against the battlement's crenellation and slowly slid to sit at its base. He sat there, breathing deeply until the chill burrowed beneath his fine clothes to the center of him.

A long swig of cool, dark brown ale slid down his throat, the after-burn making him cough and sputter. Jon didn't know how long he sat there, thoughts of Daenerys and Robb running circles in his head. Robb smiling. Daenerys' laughter. Robb raising his arm at the tourney. Daenerys with roses in her hair. Robb embracing him before he left the tent to treat with the dragon queen. Daenerys sprawled on his cot, reaching for him.

"All I need to do is stay away from her. I can guard her back, but no more meals by the fire, no more _cyvasse_ , no more . . . no more--" His voice broke.

Even to himself, he couldn't forswear kissing her again. Attraction crackled every time she was near. She _pulled_ at him, at his very center. It wasn't just that he wanted he--though he very much did. Jon relished her company, enjoyed her wicked humor, admired her tender heart. Jon heaved a sigh. There was no help for it. They would inevitably cross paths, he was her hostage.

"Queen of Love and Beauty," he muttered.

A wet nose nudged his cheek. Jon looked to find Ghost regarding him with watchful red eyes.

"Ghost," he said, his voice thick. The edges of his vision had blurred a little. A shake of the ale carafe found it almost empty.

"I'm glad you're here. I missed you," he said, burying his hands in Ghost's thick fur. Ghost's quiet, uncomplicated company soothed him. He would survive it. Jon knew he wasn't the first man alive to moon over Daenerys Stormborn, nor would he be the last.

"To bed then, hmm?" he said, nudging Ghost aside so he could rise.

The world tipped a little under his feet, and he braced an arm against the battlement wall.

"Wouldn't that be something, Ghost? A drunken fool falls in the Red Fork the night of a victory feast," he said, pursing his lips and blowing out a stream of air. His breath curled white in the chilly air, a fanciful thought reminded him of a dragon.

With Ghost padding at his side, Jon made his way--very carefully--down the stairs. At the base of the guard tower, the heat of the brazier was welcome. Ghost nudged his hip, guiding him away from the great hall. From the faint sounds, he could still hear music and the cacophony of rough male voices, the women's a softer echo.

Jon buried his fingers in the coarse white fur of his ruff and let Ghost guide him. A bit dazed on account of the ale, he was surprised when Ghost stopped. Blinking, he realized he was not at the plain door of his own chamber, but an opulent thing of sturdy redwood, carved with the Tully fish gamboling through spray.

"Ghost, why did you--?" Jon said, when the direwolf simply nosed his fingers and padded away.

"Missandei, is that--" Daenerys said as she opened the door.

Upon seeing him, the vague worry in her expression smoothed into a look of surprise. Those lovely thick brows, able to flex and curl with baffling dexterity. He wanted to kiss that furrowed spot between them.

"Jon. What are you doing here?" she asked. He had no answer. Jon shifted his shoulders, settling the gorget more comfortably. She'd forgone that tantalizing gown for a simple dressing gown of soft wool, he noted with some disappointment. 

"I--I could ask you the same question. The feast is in your honor," he said, inwardly congratulating himself. Daenerys fiddled with the sash of her dressing gown, a soft smile playing at her lips. Gods, it should be a sin to have lips like hers, full and _ripe_ . . .

"In my honor or not, I tire of the same toasts by the same drunken men."

"You seemed to like dancing with my brother." The words left his mouth before he could stop them. Her eyes, blue in some lights, violet in others, sharpened to an indigo glitter.

"Am I unaware of a Westerosi custom where bastards are forbidden to dance? You could have danced if you wished."

Jon swallowed his choler with some effort. Why had he come here? This was a pointless, painful exercise. Warring impulses battled in his chest: leave and save face, drown his jealous sorrows in privacy with some bloody dignity, or fling himself at her feet and see which vital part she trod upon first, his heart or his pride. For all Jon knew, the marriage contract had already been drawn. The thought made him agitated, irritable. No, _desperate_ , that was the right word. Jon flexed his fists, squeezing so hard his short nails dug into his palms. Daenerys remained watchful as he prevaricated, intent and irritatingly composed.

"Just . . . just once more," he said, the words emerging in a gruff rasp.

Emotion crackled in Daenerys' changeable eyes. She stepped aside, admitting him to her room. Jon crossed the threshold to stand awkwardly on the thick carpet. Whatever he expected, it hadn't been a calm admittance to her private chamber. The heat of passion would have smoothed his jagged edges.

"Bolt the door, Jon." He obeyed, both confused and aroused by her nonchalance. Any lingering relaxation from the ale deserted him, he was stone sober now.

The bolt slid home with a satisfyingly solid click. Barring the Queensguard battering down the door with a great axe, they were truly alone together. Jon turned to find Daenerys draped in a provocative pose on her side on the bed. Even swathed head to toe in wool, her shape stirred him. Jon cleared his throat.

"Shall I sit before I trip over my tongue?" he said, in a feeble attempt at humor. Daenerys' mouth curved in a catlike smile.

"I'd rather you put your tongue to good use," she said, spreading her legs a little. A low wheeze emerged from his throat. Gods, _yes_.

As if in a dream, Jon knelt at the edge of the bed and yanked her hips close, the shape of her warm and solid under his hands. Was he dreaming? Surely Ser Jorah would be shaking him awake any moment now . . . Faintly he could smell her musky scent and his cock surged to full salute. Each heavy thud of his heart pounded in his ears. Jon's mouth watered at the expanse of smooth pale skin of her legs revealed by the bunched dressing gown.

Kneading the inside of her foot, he scattered soft kisses along Daenerys' shin and knee. So soft, so warm. Peeling back the cloth above her hips, he found her deliciously naked. From that night in his tent, he remembered the texture of her curls, the plush, slick softness of her cunt. Revealed in the soft candlelight, the sight of the blond curls of her sex nearly drove him mad.

"Gods," he whispered, a prayer.

A long drinking look up the expanse of her body to her face found Daenerys' expression soft, teeth sunk into the plush softness of her lower lip. Roused and hungry. Jon settled between her spread thighs, not relinquishing her gaze as he nuzzled the tender skin. A low hum told him she liked the texture of his beard on her skin. Gently, he kissed the outer lips of her sex, inhaling the sweetness of her perfume. Daenerys' hands fell to his shoulders, his neck, restlessly petting his head. Her exhaled breaths were swift, shaky with arousal. Gods, the taste of her would kill him, rich on his tongue as he lapped at her entrance.

The first graze of his tongue on her pearl, flushed red beneath downy blond hair, drew a whimper from her. Jon squeezed her thighs in a reassuring gesture. His cock twitched in his trousers and Jon warded off the pounding urgency of excitement. There was time now to linger. If this was his only night with her, Jon swore he would draw it out, wring every drop of pleasure from it. Maybe then she would seek him out again, craving what he could give her . . .

"Jon," Daenerys whispered, her grip of his head urging him back to his task.

Grinning against her flesh, Jon dove in. Soft trilling licks across her pearl interspersed with grazing probes inside. Gentle pressure with his nose as he thrust his tongue. _Yesss_ , she was flooded with dew, soft and pliant underneath him. The wrenching surge of her release rose up swift, Jon eased her through it with soft kisses on her mound. Mmm, he loved the clench of her thighs around his head as she fell to pieces.

Eager for more, he urged her towards that edge again, ambushing her with lashes of his tongue. As she shuddered beneath him a second time, Daenerys' cries were strangely muted. Jon looked up to find her biting her sleeve, stifling her cries. His breath caught in his chest at the sight. _How is she so fucking beautiful?_ Jon went wild, lips and tongue and fingers driving her to another blinding release. Sharp fingernails bit into his scalp and he relished the pain.

"Jon! Jon, come _here_!" she said, yanking a fistful of his hair.

With a snarl, he slithered up her body and took her mouth, plunging his tongue inside. It was a wild kiss of tangled tongues, teeth clicking together. Desperate, Jon ground against her, the wet heat of her muted by his clothes. Daenerys' hands made quick work of his gorget, it slid from his shoulders and landed on the carpet with a thud. His tunic met the same fate, the seams whining at rough treatment. The scrape of her nails up his naked back was a grazing, sinuous pleasure that raised gooseflesh in its wake. Jon rose to his knees, winded by the sight of Daenerys Stormborn mussed and wild beneath him. A savage pleasure filled him. No one could please her like he could. Deftly, her shaking fingers undid the laces of his trousers. Jon shoved them down, wriggling off the edge of the bed to shuck off both boots and trousers.

Daenerys shrugged out of her dressing gown and they were both as naked as their namedays. Nipples taut, chest heaving, and silver hair a loose shining spill on the dark coverlet, she defied description. Jon treasured the unique features, the shadow of an old bruise on her hip, the jagged triangle pattern of freckles on her left breast, an old scar on the inside of her right wrist.

"Dany," he said, in prayer or plea, he wasn't sure.

Daenerys rose on her elbows, draping an arm around his neck. Jon cupped the back of her head, fingers buried in the thick warmth of her hair.

"Jon. My Jon," she whispered, breath a warm, feathering caress on his chin. _My Jon_. Oh yes, pride be damned, he would be hers. Her lover, her guard, her hostage. He kissed her, a gentle press that deepened, spiraled into timelessness.

The firm stroke of Daenerys' hand around him made him break the kiss to gasp. He was hard, so hard for her, the head of his cock weeping fluid. Arousal spiraled impossibly higher and he lifted her hand away, slotting his hips to hers. So tight, he worked inside with short thrusts until he was seated to the hilt--godsgodsohfuckyes . . .

Tender flesh so snug around him, hot and awash with dew. Daenerys' legs flexed around his thighs, soft, broken noises falling from kiss-swollen lips. His eyes fluttered shut. For the sake of his sanity, he couldn't look at her long. Jon braced his hands on either side of her head, flexing his hips. Pleasure--oh gods such _pleasure--_ pulsed in time with his heart. Jon sucked in deep breaths to fight the urge to grip her hips and pound into her until he came. _Slow. Draw it out._

Jon lost himself in a deep, deliberate rhythm, mesmerized by the soft jiggle of her breasts as he thrust, drinking in her soft gaze. Playfully, Daenerys turned her head to nip the inside of his wrist. He grinned, dipping his head to nuzzle her nose. They both stifled their cries to soft grunts and gasps--mindful of passing ears. The bed was reassuringly solid beneath them, only a faint creak of the rope frame giving them away. Daenerys smoothed her hands down his back, slick with sweat, and cupped his buttocks, urging him with a buck of her hips.

"Jon . . . Jon, more. _Please_ ," she breathed, rising to give him a messy kiss, biting his lower lip. He groaned, feeling the sweet tension of her cunt as her release loomed. He thrust deep and fast, loving the wet slap of flesh meeting. Almost, almost . . . _there_! Her body bowed beneath him, cunt clenching so _tight--_ Jon pulled out and panted, eyes clenched shut as he fought off his own release. He would make it last, damn it! Daenerys' pleasure-blurred violet eyes met his, brow puckered in confusion.

"Wha--?" she said. Jon kissed her hard.

"I'm not done with you, yet," he said, the words emerging in a guttural snarl.

Jon seized her hips, urging her up to her hands and knees. An instant's vulnerability darted across her face, but she obeyed. To soothe her, Jon smoothed his hands up her back, dropping kisses on the small of her back. _Gods, what a lovely pert arse_. Jon smacked one cheek, a soft glancing blow. Her indignant noise made him smile.

"Come on, then," she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a wicked smirk.

"Aye, as milady commands," he said, his accent thick.

Jon lined them up, stroking his cock lubricated by her juices. His balls felt heavy, aching. It would be a close thing if he continued much longer. Wanking himself blind to the thought of her had done little to prepare him for how bloody devastating it was to fuck her. Body and soul, he was hers. But once he came, he knew it would be over. She would send him away to his cold, lonely cot.

Jon pushed in, hissing at the tight clutch of her. Jon curved over her back, kissing the back of her neck as he moved. A soft bite on her shoulder drew a sharp gasp, a clench of inner muscle. He groaned, sinking back onto his knees. Breathe, breathe . . .

"Don't you dare stop," Daenerys said, squirming forward and back on his cock. The groan that emerged from his throat barely sounded human.

The pace he set was hard, Daenerys arched back, taking him deep with each jarring thrust. Jon grit his teeth, panting and savagely aroused. He fisted one hand in her hair and tugged hard. Daenerys cried out, sharp and thin as another release ambushed her. Pleasure gathered at the base of his spine. Yes, _yes . . ._

"Fuck!" he cursed, yanking his cock out to rest between her cheeks, flushed an angry red. Hissing through his teeth, Jon gasped until stars no longer danced at the edges of his vision. Daenerys growled, shoving him down beneath her with surprising strength.

"I'm not done with you either," she said.

Daenerys moaned as she slid down onto his cock in one smooth stroke. Jon whimpered, arching up. No, no too much! Jon had fantasied about this too often: Daenerys striding into his tent, pinning him down, riding him until she'd milked him of every last drop. Her breasts bounced as she rode him, face slack with rapture. Jon's hands cupped those gorgeous breasts, rising to suckle her nipples. The pace quickened, stuttered as she grew close. Jon's fingers bit into her hips, hard enough to dimple the pale, soft skin.

"Dany . . . Dany please . . . I--I'm going to . . ."

" _Yes_ ," she hissed, bucking above him. Her muscles fluttered around him and she threw her head back as it crashed over her. Jon could no more stop his release than he could stop his heart from beating. Bracing his heels on the bed, he thrust up, guiding her hips down once, twice--Jon's release struck him like a blow, pleasure swallowing him whole in a burst of light, then dragging him down into pulsing, velvet darkness.

When he was aware of himself again, he felt her soft weight draped on his chest, lips peppering his neck with kisses. Pleasure ebbed in time with the slowing pound of his heart. From the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes, he _tingled_. Daenerys' beautiful face anchored him to reality.

"There you are. Welcome back," she said, faintly amused, kissing his chin. Jon tried to will life back into his limbs, but every muscle lay slack.

"What did you do to me?" Jon demanded without heat.

"I could say the same. I couldn't move if I wanted to," Daenerys said, nose lazily nuzzling his beard.

"Like coming back from the dead," he said with a grin. The sheen of sweat began to cool and Daenerys shivered.

Jon clenched his jaw, throat closed, waiting for the command to rise and leave. Instead, Daenerys snagged the lip of the coverlet and pulled it over the both of them, settling into the curve of his shoulder with a happy sigh. Propping her head on her cupped palm, Daenerys watched him with soft violet-hued eyes.

"I value those who serve me."

Tension sang through him, erasing the last of his languor.

"Aye," he said, heavy with suspicion.

Jon hoped she would not to tarnish or cheapen what lay between them. To him it was real and vital. _Say you won't marry my brother._ An unfamiliar hint of uncertainty lingered in her expression.

"Try to remember that come morning," she said.

And as much as he wanted to parse meaning from those words, he couldn't bear what else she might say. So Jon stared at the canopy as the candles burned down and Daenerys sank into slumber nestled on his chest. Staring hot-eyed into the murky half-darkness, Jon held her close for what he knew would be the last time. Come morning, everything would be different. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So . . . what do you think?


	10. Part X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath (and a little smut)

Part X

 

"Jon," she whispered, "Jon, wake up." Daenerys burrowed in his wild hair, breathing deep of his warm, masculine smell. The press of his naked body, his sleek, hard shape in her bed filled her with such contentment. Gilded by moonlight, Jon's face was relaxed in slumber. He looked so young, though the scabbed scar around his right eyebrow added a tragedy to his handsome face. There was another fading scar over his left eye. She wondered what story it told. The soft cadence of his snores continued unabated, the arm draped around her squeezing tight.

Daenerys felt a lurch somewhere in her chest, a soul-deep tenderness. Gods help her, she _couldn't_ feel this way. But try as she might, she couldn't cram those feelings back into their box. They grew and twisted inside her, curling around her heart. Gods, what had he _done_ her? Daenerys heaved a sigh. If only Stark had heeded her, there would be no need for this subterfuge . . .

Daenerys rose to sit beside him, wakeful and restless. Part of her wanted to slide down his body, rouse him with her hands and mouth and let the passion that breathed between them burn away her gnawing unease. Another part wanted to curl beside him and pretend the world beyond didn't exist for the night. She did neither and instead slipped from bed, swathing herself in her dressing gown. A soft ache permeated her body from Jon's lovemaking.

Tendrils of fog danced on the river's surface, the moving water muttering to itself. The chill took her breath. _Winter is coming_ , she thought with wry amusement. She curled up on a wrought iron chair and watched the river move, listening to the faint, mournful cries of water fowl. Despite the idyllic peace of the night, she could find no peace of mind.

At the feast, Tyrion had remarked what a striking pair she made with Robb Stark, waggling his eyebrows. Standing before the heart tree would earn her another eight thousand swords, enough to crush the Lannisters, the pretender in Dorne and win the Iron Throne. Another thought said that Robb Stark had surrendered to her, offered her Jon as a hostage, thus it was his feudal duty to surrender his banners.

Wading through the festivities of this tourney, she had not yet been able to discuss at any length with the King in the North himself. Thank the gods her company was due to move out soon. The sooner they left Riverrun behind, the more settled she would feel. Her children had been spotted flying west. Casterly Rock awaited them. Her eye fell to the rose garland on the sideboard, slightly wilted. Whether as a calculated move or a gesture of intent, Jon had raised eyebrows and ruffled feathers by crowning her.

"I think I'll miss the river when we ride west. The sound is pleasant," Jon said, arms folded over his chest. Daenerys' breath caught at the sight him leaning against the doorjamb, sleep-tousled and bare-chested. His hair had fallen loose from its tie, wild black curls falling in his face. His unlaced trousers rode low on his hips, revealing that enticing line of dark hair below his navel.

"It is lovely, but then Casterly Rock is on the Sunset Sea. Have you ever seen the sea, Jon?" she asked. Some of the tension bled from his shoulders and Daenerys wondered at that. She missed the easy camaraderie between them.

"No, closest thing would be God's Eye Lake. Rakharo said you led them across the poison water?"

"Dothraki fear any water their horses can't drink. They call the sea poison water." Despite the faint air of awkwardness, Jon was still easy to talk to.

"And they followed you where they had never been before," he said.

"Yes," she said, "it took some persuasion with Drogon." Jon snorted.

"Persuasion with a dragon."

"A contradiction, isn't it?" Daenerys said with a smile. Jon shook his head, considering.

"A choice that isn't really a choice to any sane man," he said. Silence settled between them.

"It would have been my choice to seat the tournament champion and valued hostage at the high table," Daenerys said, rising to face him. The corner of Jon's mouth curled in a half smile.

"And how was it the queen did not get what she wants?" he asked. Daenerys gave him a mock sour look.

"I'm sure you know politics can be a fine balance. A guest, even an honored guest, has little say in seating arrangements," she said. Jon chuffed out a dry laugh.

"I can imagine. Father bowed to Lady Stark's wishes, but since becoming King, Robb makes a point to seat me at the high table. But the North is more keen to follow by character than any southron lord. The riverlords would balk at a bastard seated between monarchs."

"You are . . . valuable to me," Daenerys said, and winced. The same inane words, they sounded cold, callous.

"Aye," Jon said, equally noncommittal.

If she was wise, she would end any painful goodbye. Regardless of blinding passion, tomorrow she would no longer be the Queen of Love and Beauty and he her devoted knight. Instead she would still be a queen battling for her throne, and he her hostage.

"I'm cold," she said, extending an olive branch for him to grasp.

Jon drew her into an embrace. His naked skin, chilled by the air, still radiated the heat of life. Daenerys rested her forehead against his, breathing in his warmth and silence.

"Jon, this cannot continue," she said, shivering as he breathed a soft kiss between her brows.

"I'm not an idiot, Dany. I know all we have is tonight. Tomorrow you'll be Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, and I'll be just Jon Snow." What lay unspoken was the northern alliance and Robb Stark.

"Then tonight you'll be my Jon and I'll be Dany," she said, twining her arms around his neck. A small sound escaped her as Jon swept her up in his arms.

"No time to waste then," he said with his half-smile, half-grimace. Daenerys found it within her to laugh, snagging the garland of flowers as Jon carried her inside.

Moonlight and shadow painting him in silver and onyx, he laid her on the bed with the tenderness of a groom. Daenerys warded away the unwelcome thought, pulling him down for a tender kiss. His lips moved over hers with gentle pressure, fingers fumbling for the tie of her dressing gown. Daenerys laid the crown of flowers on her head and dragged the coverlets over them, creating a cocoon of warmth and comfort. Passion was a language they both understood, honest and powerful. Jon's callused hands smoothed up her belly, peeling aside the dressing gown as he did so. He cupped her breasts, teasing her pebbled nipples with careful pinches.

Each touch was like plucking a string of pleasure, heat and wetness pooling between her thighs. Daenerys flicked her tongue against the roof of his mouth, reveling in his low hum. Her hands wandered over him. His skin was smooth and cool over hard muscle, dusted softly with dark body hair. Mm, there was so many sides of his loving: fierce or tender, swift or careful. The soft scent of roses filled the air with its gentle perfume along with the earthy scents of sex and sweat.

Daenerys nipped his lower lip, drawing him down to her. The weight of him was a pleasant pressure, his hard cock trapped against the crease of her thigh. Groaning, Jon broke the kiss to squirm out of his trousers. The naked heat of him nudging her entrance made her toes curl. The graze of his callused finger along the seam of her cunt drew a gasp, the circling touch on her pearl a groan. Pleasure was a low throbbing burn.

"Wet. So wet for me," Jon growled, smoothing her wetness over her outer lips, over her pearl. She bit back a whimper. Jon nudged her mound with the blunt head of his cock, teasing. Daenerys arched up, the need for him pounding along with her heartbeat.

" _Yes,"_ she breathed, cupping his buttocks as he slid inside. 

Gods, the flex of muscle under her hands, the delicious pressure of his cock inside her, the hot press of his mouth on her breasts sent the pleasure spiraling higher. Jon panted, pressing his forehead to hers as he thrust. Every inch of her seen and touched and cherished by him. Close enough to share breath, share a heartbeat. What had he _done_ to her? A particular sharp thrust sent a bolt of pleasure rippling through her. Mm, she felt the sucking tide of her release rising, a tensing, gathering feeling.

"Jon . . . Jon!" she breathed, eyes squeezing shut, unable to bear his weight of his gaze any longer. Pleasure surged up to drown her, a wild, clenching shudder. Jon's tilted his head back, mouth slack as he rode out the spasms. Daenerys whimpered, the slow, steady strokes made her body clench and shiver anew around him.

"Yes, yes, Dany. Oh . . . _fuck_ ," Jon said, thrusting faster. Her fingernails bit into his buttocks, drawing him deep. _Yesss, more! More!_   The pace quickened to something fiercer, wild. With a choked cry, Jon thrust once more before spilling his seed inside her. Another, softer release quivered through her as Jon arched against her.

"My Jon," Daenerys whispered, pressing her lips to his sweat-damp brow. His soft answering smile broke her heart. He rubbed a handful of wilted red rose petals between his fingers.

"My Queen. My Dany."

 

In the small hours before dawn, Daenerys twined her fingers in his hair, drawing him down for another lingering kiss. There were no words left, no promise that could make their parting easier. Jon's lips moved against hers, tender and sweet.

"Go," she whispered. She saw the conflict in those sable eyes. Daenerys had thought him inscrutable, that wasn't true. A look into his eyes and saw the passion and struggle.

"Good day, Your Grace," he said. She mustered a wobbly smile.

"Good day, Snow."

He strode out the door without a backward glance, and she was thankful for it. Daenerys closed the door and leaned her forehead against the smooth redwood, struggling to master her turmoil. Missandei hovered, wringing her hands.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Your Grace?" she asked. Throat tight, Daenerys shook herself. It had been a spectacular night of passion, she had no reason to get so emotional.

"Yes, Missandei. Draw a bath and fetch my purple gown," she said.

"Yes, Your Grace."

The time it took for Missandei complete her tasks was enough for Daenerys reassemble her mental armor. She sank into the bath, letting the hot water ease the subtle aches of rigorous and repeated lovemaking. Her shoulders and breasts were peppered with love bites, stippled purple on her fair skin, hair snarled, her sex tender and slick. Missandei's soft, patient hands began their work on Daenerys' tangled hair.

"Your Grace . . .?" her hesitant voice woke her from a thin doze. Daenerys opened her eyes to find her servant's face creased with worry. The sun had risen bright and golden, washing the room in its glow.

"Yes?" she said.

"There is something I don't understand about Westerosi culture, and it is causing you distress. May I ask . . ." the girl trialed off, fidgeting helplessly. Daenerys gripped her wrist.

"Say on, my friend. What is your question?" Missandei chewed on her lower lip a moment before answering.

"What is a bastard? Are they criminals of some kind? Is that why they are so reviled?" Daenerys' grip tightened on the lip of the tub.

"No Missandei. They are not criminals. A bastard is a child born of parents who are not married. Legitimate children, like Robb Stark, inherit their father's lands and titles. A man like Jon Snow inherits only what the father chooses to leave them--which is usually nothing. As when Hizdhar zo Loraq prepositioned me in Meereen, marriage often secures peace, or cements alliances, thus legitimacy is of utmost importance."

At her words Missandei's face twisted into an expression of profound sorrow. With a hiccup, she turned away. Alarmed, Daenerys sloshed out of the bath to kneel naked at Missandei's side.

"Oh my lady, I am sorry! Here, let me h--help--" Missandei offered the towel. Daenerys wrapped it around herself to appease her.

"What is wrong, Missandei?"

"I am sorry," she sniffed.

"For what?" Daenerys wiped away the girl's tears with her thumb.

"That--That the vows of a dead man can keep you from the one you care for!" she said soggily. Daenerys flinched at the wording.

"It is the way of the world, my friend. Whatever there is between Jon and I cannot be, not if I am to take the Iron Throne."

"It is a cruel thing," Missandei said.

"Yes. Yes, it is," Daenerys agreed.

 

In the great hall, the sound of laughter told her Tyrion held court over breakfast. To her relief, Jon was nowhere in sight. Seeing him so soon would rattle her.

"I'm surprised you're awake before noonday, Lord Tyrion," she said, taking her seat. Her Dothraki bloodriders were absent, she noted, typical of their usual revelry.

"A Hand's work is never finished, especially after a tourney. So much gold changes hands," he said, grinning. As promised, he'd swept the bets on various matches. Ser Barristan said her Hand won a tidy sum among the Riverland men after Jon's sword-on-foot win.

"Our coffers will be overflowing at this rate," Daenerys said dryly. Cold slices of boar between warm bread soaked with plum sauce made a fine breakfast. Storm-Son took his seat and Daenerys rubbed her hands together.

"Now, to business. I mean to march before Stark drags us back to the tourney grounds."

 

xxx

 

"There you are, Snow! Come, you're needed in the great hall," Ser Jorah said, wheezing from the long climb up to the battlements.

"What's happened, Ser Jorah?" Jon asked, swiping crumbs of his breakfast from his chin. Ghost watched intently from Jon's feet. He craved solitude after the painful parting before dawn, and the calls of the birds from the battlements were soothing. A part of him was greatly relieved it was not Ser Barristan who sought him out. Their awkward meeting outside the queen's door this morning made him leery of facing him again. 

"I don't bloody know, Snow. Do I look like a page or a knight?"

"You look like Queensguard," he said, faintly amused. By now, he was used to Ser Jorah's gruff sense of humor.

Together, they traversed corridors, clattered down stairs and shouldered their way into the great hall. Robb's smile greeted him. Jon's answering smile was reflexive, until he noticed his brother was garbed in a formal jerkin in Stark colors. His stomach churned as if he'd supped on broken glass. Cold sweat dewed on his forehead. Gods, did they want him to stand as _witness_?

"What's wrong?" Jon asked, looking around the assemblage of gathered lords and ladies. Even Lady Stark was smiling at him. A polite ripple of laughter answered him.

Daenerys stood beside Robb and Rickon, hands folded. His mouth went dry. Meeting her eye after a night with her in his arms was harder than he'd thought. She looked so remote, though the flowing silk gown of rusty purple was fetching. Silver dragon armbands and torq glinted along with her braided hair. A hot jolt raced through him at the sight of one of his love bites peeking from the neckline of her gown.

As queen, she needed no cloak to honor tradition, if they spoke their vows before a heart tree as was tradition in the North. _Gods, no . . ._

"Jon Snow of House Stark, would you kneel?" she asked in that ringing tone, meant to be answered with complete obedience. Casting a nervous glance at Robb, he cleared his throat. Was this some rite that he was unfamiliar with?

"My lady," he said, kneeling before her.

Robb offered her Longclaw, sheath pillowed in the crook of his arm.

At the sight of his own blade, the pence dropped. A soft warmth pulsed in his chest, muscles loose with relief--she wasn't marrying Robb; she was _knighting_ him. Those nonsense words last night about value hadn't meant the bedding, thank the gods. Jon met her eye, trying to convey he understood. She drew the sword, and the silvery slither was the only sound, save for the occasional shuffle or cough. The dark Valyrian steel cast spangled shadows in the weak sunlight filtering in through arrowslits.

"Jon Snow of House Stark, in the light of the Seven, do you swear to uphold the laws of the realm, obey your lord, protect the innocent, and defend the weak for the rest of your days?" she said. Jon groped for the right words, wishing they'd given him time to prepare.

"You--Your Grace, House Stark holds to the Old Gods of the First Men," he said, grateful his voice was steady. Daenerys did not miss a beat.

"Regardless of your faith, in reward for your selfless defense of my person and your valor in battle, I would have your oath," she said, with the hint of a smile. Jon kept his face stern, admiring how she held the sword with steady, capable hands.

"I swear, Your Grace," he said.

"Then I knight you Ser Jon Snow of House Stark." Daenerys lowered Longclaw and touched each of his shoulders gently. He felt the cold, heavy kiss of steel through his jerkin.

The sacred silence shattered in applause. Jon rose and accepted the slaps and buffeting from Robb and the Winterfell men, feeling dazed. Daenerys sheathed Longclaw with a crisp snap and offered it to him. He winced. It was a potently sexual gesture, made doubly so by her expression. Not one of the remote queen, but the lover: warm, immediate, intense. For an instant their hands brushed on Longclaw's sheath, along with that hot jolt of contact. _So beautiful . . ._ The moment was broken by Robb's voice.

"Her Grace sent a raven after the Battle of Harrenhal. We had this made for you," Robb said, accepting a bundle from Lady Stark.

"Every knight needs to fly his own house colors," Lady Stark said. Jon watched her with wary eyes, then unwound the bundle. The Stark direwolf snarled on the banner, a white wolf on a grey banner, the colors reversed as was the custom with bastards.

"To the White Wolf of House Stark!" Robb said to a cheer.

Choked, Jon said: "Thank you, Your Grace." He hoped they knew he meant both of them.

"And you, Lady Stark," he said with a nod. Lady Stark was a fine hand at embroidery, he had often heard her boast that Robb flew colors made by her own hand. It was too much to hope that there was a tacit apology in the gesture, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

"Ser Snow," Lady Stark said with an equally cool nod.  

Mercifully, the lords and ladies dispersed to break their fast, and Jon was left with his brothers. Daenerys was swept away by her small council, three pages already offering messages and raven scrolls. His gaze followed her, longing for a moment alone.

The door shut behind her and Jon snapped out of his trance. He needed to be more careful. Knights, even bastard knights, were noticed. Rickon tugged at his sleeve.

"I'm happy for you, Jon. It looks just like Ghost!" Rickon said, stroking the snarling wolf. Jon laughed.

"It does, doesn't it? They should call you the Black Wolf, for Shaggydog." Rickon gave him a toothy smile. The direwolf in question lay beneath the great table at Rickon's chair, watching them with narrow green eyes.

"I like the sound of that. When I grow up to be a knight, Shaggy and I can ride with you and Ghost," he said.

"I'd like that," Jon said, ruffling his hair.

"Rickon!" Lady Stark summoned her youngest son, ushering him toward the great table. Robb turned from where he spoke with Lord Tully.

"Come, we must talk," he said, summoning Grey Wind with a soft whistle.

Clutching Longclaw and his banner, Jon followed Robb through labyrinthine halls to the lord's chamber. Grey Wind and Ghost playfully warred over a cow thighbone in a puddle of sunshine. Robb poured a cup of ale for each of them. Jon sank into one of the cushioned chairs with a sigh, feeling dazed.

"I'm sorry if we ambushed you earlier. I thought it better to happen in a quieter setting. Her Grace thought to do so yesterday at the feast." Jon nodded, absorbing the words as he sipped his ale. Daenerys had sent the raven to Robb after Harrenhal weeks ago, and meant to convey that last night with her cryptic words on 'value.' A considerate thought, but unnecessary. Even without Ghost's intervention, he was certain he would have ended up seeking her out anyway.

"It was a shock. I haven't heard of many bastard knights," he said with a self-deprecating smile.

"Piss on that. You're a prince in the North," Robb said flippantly, leaning back in his chair. Jon grunted in amusement but let the comment pass.

They spoke easily of the feast, Rosalin and his Dothraki mount Flint. Even being king, Robb spoke to him no different. 'We're brothers, first,' he always said, 'I don't care what side of the sheets you were born on. You're blood. You're family.'

"I've decided to ride south with Her Grace," Robb said, after a moment. Jon blinked at him, setting aside the ale.

"Really, Robb? What changed your mind?"

"For too long we've hidden in the North. Daenerys is a force to be reckoned with. With her, there is a chance--a real chance--for lasting peace in Westeros."

Jon scratched his chin, pondering his words. Yes, after her fire and blood, Daenerys would rule the Seven Kingdoms well. 

"Will you ride west with us?" Jon asked. The mind boggled at the logistics of housing nearly twenty thousand fighting men at Casterly Rock. _A headache for Tyrion, to be sure._

Another thought pondered at his assumption that he would stay with Daenerys. If Robb rode south, there would be no need for hostages. The North would be declared for Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of Aerys Targaryen. If that was so, Jon's place would be with Robb.

"No. Instead when we ride south, we will join the garrison at Harrenhal to harry the remaining Crownlands banners--Her Grace has not left us many to fight. We could even march for Storm's End, the Stormlands are on fire."

"What of the Targaryen pretender?" Jon asked. Robb gave him a lopsided smile, blue eyes warm with amusement. Jon winced inwardly. The phrase was Daenerys'. _Well seven hells, she curses him often enough after_ cyvasse. _Usually after reading raven scrolls from the red woman. Bloody sorceress._

"The so-named Aegon Targaryen has fled beyond the Prince's Pass to Dorne. Did you know he has war elephants from Essos?"

"Volantis, yes," he said.

"Not much against a dragon, hmm?" Robb said, folding his hands behind his back. Jon's eyes fell to Grey Wind and Ghost tearing filaments of cow bone apart with ease.

"Nor a pack of direwolves, I'd say," Jon said, rising from his chair to scratch both wolves behind their ears. Grey Wind nosed Jon's hand, Ghost licked his chin.

"Aye," Robb said.

A moment of quiet stretched between them, filled with a very real dread. In a world of dragons and elephants and blood magic, what were two boys with swords and sticks?

"And what will you ask for in return for your help?" Jon said.

"In return, I hope to negotiate with the would-be queen of Westeros. Terms advantageous for the North. I would rule, but as King or Warden of the North, I don't really care. Never have. I broke with the Iron Throne because of what that little shit Joffery did to Father. We will be drawn back into conflict regardless of our wishes, either the Lannisters or the other Targaryen will march north eventually."

"Best to back the right man in the tourney?" Jon said. Robb snapped his fingers.

"Exactly. Though I'm sure the northern lords will balk at giving up their sovereignty."

"I'm sure they will shut up when they see her dragons," Jon said. Robb laughed.

"Maybe not Lady Mormont," he said.

"Even her. Arya would have liked her. Both Lady Mormont and Her Grace," Jon said. Robb's throat flexed as he swallowed hard, he rapped his knuckles on the edge of the table hard.

"Gods, I miss them. I miss practicing archery with Bran in the bailey," Robb said. Jon bowed his head. It felt like it belonged in another lifetime, the four of them galloping through the godswood in a rowdy game of tag. He found a smile.

"Remember when Arya switched Sansa's rouge to that berry juice? Her shriek could've woken the Kings of Winter."

Robb's shoulders shook with mirth, laughter a quivering undercurrent to his words: "She looked like a painted jester for a week!"

Their laughter tapered into silence. Robb fiddled with the stone markers on the table marking troop movements. Twisting a fish token between his fingers, he cleared his throat.

"Erm, Uncle Edmure will maintain the Riverlands," he said, gesturing toward the riverroad. Jon rose and squinted at the map.

"Mother will ride home to Winterfell with Rickon who will rule as Prince until I return," Robb said. Jon was grateful for the change in topic. Talking about Sansa, Arya, or Bran was just too painful. Dead or just lost, they were beyond their reach.

"Will Lady Rosalin be joining you on your march south?" Jon asked. Robb smirked.

"I don't think she'd fare well on a war march. She will go home to Winterfell."

"With you, the war will end that much faster," Jon said. Robb raked a hand through his wavy auburn hair, his expression somber.

"It will cost northern lives, but blood is the price of peace against people like Cersei Lannister."

"Her Grace is a far better ruler," Jon said. Robb's warm blue gaze was direct, a wry quirk to his mouth lightening the scowl.

"Don't think I haven't noticed how you look at her, not to mention the dramatics of crowning her. You're smitten with the dragon queen, aren't you, _Ser_ Snow?" His tone was teasing. Jon's fists balled at his sides. A faint wistful thought said they could not banter about women as they used to as lads. 

"That is my affair," he said quietly. Robb's brow rose, spreading his hands.

"Forgive me, Jon. I didn't mean to pry."

Walking away from her was too fresh, the wound raw. The issue was no longer that he was her captive--Robb's choice to ride south had made that issue moot. The idea of marriage stuck in his craw. It would fester inside him if Robb considered marrying her, an easy thing to consider if Rosalin rode north to Winterfell. He would be King if he married her, not a mere Warden.

"Forget it," Jon said, trying to smile.

He didn't want to sour their last moments together before riding their separate ways. Conversation veered to neutral topics: the high points of the tourney, Rickon's latest antics, how fast Grey Wind and Ghost were growing.

A rap at the door interrupted them. Brienne's blond head ducked under the doorway.

"Your Grace, Ser Snow, we are ready to march," she said, creaking in her steel plate. Robb grinned.

"The Lannisters should tremble. The Young Wolf and the White Wolf are on the move."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you everyone for your lovely comments and questions! I love hearing them!


	11. Part XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dragons fly over the westerlands

Part XI

 

"Gods bless my ancestor King Jaehaerys!" Daenerys said, tipping her head back to allow the warm rain to kiss her face. The soft drizzle made faint chiming music on her armor. Even with night closing in, the air felt heavy, humid, a rare warm evening in autumn. The reverberating cries of her children sounded above them, a quieter echo to the occasional claps of thunder.

Daenerys felt the reflection of their frustration. Not on the hunt, but that _she_ was traveling so slow. After nearly a week in Riverrun, they missed her. Tomorrow she would fly. After being cooped up in Riverrun, sparring with words and barbed glances, Daenerys felt invigorated and relieved to be marching again under open sky. 

"Your Grace?" Missandei asked, riding at her stirrup.

"He commissioned the construction of the kingsroad throughout Westeros," she replied.

"We've only made it to Golden Tooth because the roads are wide and well-maintained on the crown's coin," Tyrion added.

"Lord Tyrion, make a note for me to thank your sister when I see her," she said. Tyrion smirked.

"Of course."

"Have you seen the dragon roads in Old Valyria?" Daenerys asked, twisting in her saddle to meet his eye.

"I have, Your Grace. During my travels to meet you in Meereen, in fact. A miracle of engineering to be sure. The road runs straight as an arrow to the horizon, a smooth line of black fused stone. Beautiful, like a stroke of ink." Daenerys inspected the gravel road they rode upon which, though wide and well-maintained, was not the marvel of Old Valyria that Tryion spoke of so wistfully.

"That wisdom was lost with the Doom," she said, with a shake of her head.

"Untold wonders lost," Tyrion said. _Not all_. Her eye caught Viserion circling and twisting overhead.

Riding west from the Riverlands, her army had encountered more of the hill tribesman harrying their perimeter. A nuisance more than anything, though any vestiges of goodwill Tyrion held for them had swiftly evaporated. One Burned Men tribesman stole a baggage cart full of Tyrion's books from Essos--thinking its chests held treasures. Storm-Son and his Unsullied had retrieved the wagon and horses, but the tribesman had burned the books: a crime of the highest order for Tyrion's eyes.

A string of Dothraki horses had been stolen, but not before dozens of hill tribesmen fell to Unsullied spears. Each Unsullied had taken her assault on the road to Riverrun as a personal insult, and performed with ruthless passion in battle as a result. 

Robb Stark had ridden east, but left a contingent of one thousand northerners under the command of their newly christened knight. Ser Jon Snow rode with his men somewhere in the column snaking down the riverroad. Daenerys tamped down on the welter of emotions the thought roused. Yes, they stood on more equal footing now, he a knight representing the North and she their liegelord. But since leaving the Riverlands a week ago, he hadn't spoken a single word to her, passionate or otherwise.

The terrain grew steadily steeper, rockier, making it difficult to keep the company in a cohesive line. The monotony of striped brown stone, bleached stubs of trees and tough yellowed grasses scrolled by with stultifying slowness.

The rich sound of a Dothraki horn interrupted any further conversation. Daenerys stiffened in her saddle, tense and waiting. One blast was 'stay on guard.' If it sounded again, her scouts had seen an armed force and they were to prepare for battle. Heartbeats passed in agonized waiting. The second blast shivered through her.

_Battle_!

Daenerys squinted, the overcast sky was darkening quickly. Should she have torches lit, or would that target her men to enemy archers? Her Dothraki would be hemmed in by the crags . . .

"It seems Leo Lefford has summoned his banners to repulse us. I would point out, Your Grace, that the men of the Golden Tooth have held this mountain pass against invaders for centuries."

"Against what sort of enemies, Lord Hand?" she asked, grinning. No land army was prepared to withstand dragons.

"Excellent point!" Tyrion said, reining his horse around to rejoin the Unsullied honor guard. Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah were positioned with different units of cavalry and infantry, along with her three bloodriders. Leadership must be clear in case the body of her force was splintered by the terrain.

"You have command of the rear guard, Lord Tyrion!" she said over her shoulder. Daenerys touched her heels to her silver, her mare's stride silken and smooth as they cantered down a narrow rise. Swinging down and dismissing her silver with a pat to Missandei's care, Daenerys trotted off the road to a rocky clearing.

Cupping her hands to her mouth, Daenerys shouted: " _Naejot nyke!"_

Drogon's answering roar rattled her helm. Caught between giddiness and nerves, she giggled. Like a demon slithering through the murky half-dark, Drogon skimmed over the ground before landing with teeth-jarring thud. Red eyes glowed like coals in twilight gloom.

Her dragon shook his head in irritation and Daenerys admired Tyrion's handiwork. Supplemented with fine northern leather, Tryion had collaborated with Riverrun's saddler to craft a working saddle for Drogon. Supple dark leather covered an adapted saddle tree with buckled straps to secure her legs. Drogon seemed to tolerate it, but only just.

"Come, my love," she said in Valyrian, settling in the saddle. _Certainly more comfortable,_ she thought and urged Drogon to fly.

The warm rain, once a soft welcome kiss, became stinging needles on her skin as Drogon flew higher. The last glimmer of sunlight faded into velvet darkness. Daenerys clutched Drogon's frilled spikes, disoriented by the dark. She may as well wear a blindfold for all the use she was! The heavy, rhythmic thump of wings told her Viserion and Rhaegal were close. Drogon climbed in the air, rain streaming down his scales.

Through the gloom, Daenerys glimpsed pinpricks of torchlight. The fortress of Golden Tooth loomed in the distance, a jagged, blacker shape against a black landscape.

"Too far ahead to be our scouts. Lefford chose his timing well. To be of any use, we must get close," she said.

Did he have ballistae? If he did, then those torches were the bait of his trap. Gooseflesh stippled her skin. As deeply as she loved them, she could not keep her dragons out of battle.

Daenerys led her three children in wide circles over the battlefield. Her army needed time to get into position. Daenerys hunched closer to Drogon's scales, seeking his warmth. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. A bugle sounded, her men were ready.

" _Soves_ _,_ Drogon," she said, with a lash of the mental rein.

Daenerys squinted against the stinging rain as Drogon dove towards the Lannister men, trusting their keener senses. Her belly quailed at the thrill and she anchored herself with a tight grip on his spikes. Being unable to see the ground stretched her nerves taut. The wind whistled in the confines of her helm. Abruptly, she heard ragged shouts:

" _Dragon_!"

"Look out!"

"Archers, _fire_!"

" _Dracarys_!" she said.

Three streams of fire edged black and green and white lit up the night in blinding, fractured clarity. Like thunder echoed lightning, so screams echoed her children's fire. Fire roared and crackled. In its wavering light, she saw ranks of armed men, horses, trebuchets. They did not run, did not break rank--

A sharp whizzing sound flew by her ear, then a dozen more clattering thuds against Drogon's scales. Arrows! The arrows could not wound Drogon, and Daenerys was grateful for the protection of her armor. Shifting in her saddle, Daenerys urged Drogon back to the sky, Viserion and Rhaegal at her flank. The mental rein seared her, each of them wanted to _burn_ , to _bite_ and _tear_.

"Up," she bit out, forcing the command through their bond. With a snarl, they obeyed.

A cacophony of shouts and thundering hooves announced her army's arrival. If only she could _see_! The remnants of dragonfire and torchlight were not enough to discern who was moving where. Moving her children up to circle again, Daenerys drummed her fingers on her thigh. The rain, a gentle patter at dusk, had quickened into a true downpour. Drops fell on her armored body like hailstones, its din drowning out the sounds of battle below. The plan had been to drive the Dothraki and northern cavalry up and break their center. Unsullied could hem in the flanks. The four of them were to wreak havoc aloft.

"There is no havoc to be wrought when I cannot see friend or foe!" she said to Drogon.

Urgent hunger pressed through the bond, whetted by the screams and scent of blood soaking the ground. Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal were loyal to her and no other. They cared little _whose_ blood was shed, enemy or friend. A headache pounded at her temples at the effort of restraining them. Lefford had counted on the darkness causing confusion--these were his lands. No doubt his men knew every rock, crag, and gully. _Kevan Lannister could learn a lesson from his bannerman._

If Cersei's creatures proved half as apt, it would a true war.

"Let's go!" she said.

Leaning forward, she led them in a swifter downward sweep, swiping the film of moisture from her face. Along the sinuous length of Drogon's neck, she saw the center of the torches.

" _Dracarys_!" she shouted.

Once more fire engulfed a swath of men, some staggered alight, swiping their hands at the flames consuming them. Arrows pattered useless against Drogon's scales-- _tink_! An arrow glanced off the cheekpiece of her helm. _Thunk_! Another struck her square in the chest. Daenerys rocked back in the saddle, winded by the blow. She dragged in gasping breaths. Fumbling fingers touched the cold, wet steel of her breastplate, the arrow had left a pence-sized dent in the plate. Drogon roared in outrage, unleashing gouts of fire, followed by his brothers.

"Up," she wheezed, slumping in the saddle. Her children did not resist her, thank the gods. Bracing herself on Drogon's spikes, she breathed shallow through her nose. Any deeper breath sent a bolt of pain up her right side.

"Ow." Daenerys paused, blinking away red spots. _Bloody bastards! Lions of Golden Tooth, I'll melt your keep to the ground!_ The anger lifted her, she felt buoyed by the fresh, hot surge.

" _Idakos_! _Fire and Blood_!" The shout hurt her chest, but her children answered her with a roar like thunder.

The dive was swift, whipping tears from her eyes. Daenerys grinned into the dark, afire with the joy of flight. Her voice cracked on the third ' _Dracarys'_ but the sentiment was understood. Fire, beautiful, cleansing fire.

Drogon banked sharp, but not before the whistle and thud of more arrows. Another struck her back, and-- _pain!_

Pain bloomed like a sickly flower, her leg, gods, her _leg_!

"Fuck!" she said, gingerly touching the arrow lodged in her left thigh. Drogon unleashed a savage roar, flooded with rage. Daenerys fought for room in her mind around the red-black pain. Her children fought her, ready to rage and kill. The tether burned. Daenerys grit her teeth, burrowing deep. She swiped away the warm trickle of blood seeping from her nose.

"Fly! _Fly_!" she commanded them in Valyrian.

The three obeyed, climbing in the sky. Rhaegal and Viserion made distressed growling sounds as they flew. Each flap of Drogon's wings sent a dull jolt of pain through her leg. The fucking arrow had pierced clean through the mail-backed leather trews she wore. _I will have words with the armorer when this battle is over!_

Blind the dark, she felt the thick warmth of blood trickle down her leg. As much as she wanted to fly back to what remained of the caravan and rob Maester Jaron of his milk of the poppy, she knew she could not. To pull the dragons out of battle was to abandon her men to whatever other traps Lefford laid. More time wasted, more lives lost. _You are the blood of the dragon. You are stronger than this,_ she told herself. At least the rain had slackened to a sullen drizzle.

"Again! Let's burn the fools!" she said, pressing the thought of fire toward her children. Viserion roared and his brothers joined him until the skies rang with their rage.

The dragons made another pass, Drogon catching a cadre of archers in a stream of fire. Viserion's white fire consumed three wagons. Rhaegal's green-tinged flames destroyed a knot of spearmen, the fire burning so hot, the stones at their feet glowed cherry red. Drogon took to the sky again.

If the downward grip of the earth tugged at her leg, then Drogon's bank even worse. It felt as if the arrow was molten, each jolt a hot knife of pain piercing her anew. She wasn't sure if it was blood or rain that soaked her leg, a warm rivulet that steamed on Drogon's scales. The weight of her armor had never felt heavier, enough to crush her bones. Below there was only scattered torches and the faint snatches of noise, not enough to give her any clue as to how the battle fared. Daenerys shivered. The cold seemed to penetrate her marrow.

"Enough. Take me back, love," she said Valyrian. There was no shame in seeking tending when injured. Drogon quickened his pace in what she hoped was the direction of the rear guard.

An Unsullied horn sounded in two short blasts. A cry for help! By her vague approximation, the blast came from behind them. She would see to her men and then ride for a maester.

"Come!" she said, shifting in the saddle. Squinting through the rain, Daenerys tried to find the source of the distress call.

"Where are you, children?" she shouted in Valyrian. Gods, her chest hurt with each breath!

" _Jelmazmo! Jelmazmo_!"

It was Essosi foot soldiers who called for her with maybe a dozen Unsullied among them. She saw them waving from a spar of rock, hemmed in on all sides by shield-bearing Lannister infantry. How could she get to them? The edges of her thoughts felt vague, fuzzy.

" _Dracarys_ ," she said, gasping. Drogon breathed fire, a neat arch through the enemy force. The rest fled or were overcome. The satisfaction she found in it felt strangely distant.

Daenerys touched her lips.

Why did they feel numb?

Drogon's wings faltered, his head craning around the look at her.

A terrible fear rose up in her, her lungs could not draw a deep enough breath. Not around the pain. Oh gods, the _pain_. It would never end! The edges of her vision pulsed black. The tether _snapped_ as her strength failed her.

The void loomed and dragged her down into velvet darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for another cliffhanger. I appreciate all your lovely kudos and comments!


	12. Part XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Tooth

Part XII

 

“No, no, no, no,” Jon said, eyes fixed on Drogon flying overhead. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Drogon bellowed out a ragged roar, the sound whetted sharp. _Daenerys_! Jon heeled Flint after the dragon—all three spewing fire. Gods, it felt as if all of Westeros was ablaze.

A Lannister soldier screamed toward him, brandishing a spear. Flint shifted underneath him at the slightest touch of heel and Jon slashed out. Longclaw sliced clean through the haft of the spear, the soldier’s leather jerkin, and stuck deep in the juncture of neck and shoulder. The man shrieked as blood spurted. In the wavering dragonfire, Jon saw the wet white gleam of bone between the man’s fingers. Jon’s glove felt sticky with blood as it trickled down Longclaw’s length. He kicked at the man’s foot, unhorsing him and heeling Flint onward. Northmen loped in tight formation behind him, a man-at-arms flying his white wolf banner. Ghost kept pace with ease, his white muzzle dark with blood.

They rode through an uneven valley weaving through knots of struggling men and horses. It was madness in the dark, though from what Jon could tell, they were winning. Lefford had outfitted his men with soot-darkened armor and archers with every company, making them fight for every crag, every inch of stone. Traps were laid so men fell in vats of pitch, or pits lined with sharpened sticks. The Unsullied had broken Lefford’s center, Jon had seen the sea of gleaming armor and spears move with rigid precision. If he had any sense, Lefford would retreat, or surrender.

Drogon’s black-edged fire burned away any other thought. The dragon flew poised over a cadre of archers, breathing a steady stream of fire. The men had breath to scream, shrill in the night before falling as blackened bones. Dissatisfied, Drogon landed, long neck snaking out to snatch at the fleeing haunch of a horse. In one sharp twist of his muscular body, a sickening crack of bone, then the horse lay limp. The dragon swallowed it in one pass. A cold seed of fear grew in his belly. Daenerys said she would keep her children in the air. Why--?

Drogon roared again, this time a weaker sound, as if in pain. Jon dug his heels into Flint’s sides, urging him to a full gallop toward Drogon. _Dany, Dany, Dany_! Heart in his throat, he pulled up, barely dodging Drogon’s flung wing. Jon leapt off Flint and sheathed Longclaw.

“Stay, Ghost!” he said.

Drogon blew fire in jagged rings, blinding in the sky, wings and claws and teeth lashing out. The fallen rain rose in thin threads of steam, the rocks glowing red and hissing faintly. The heat nearly seared his feet through his boots; he felt as if he were being slowly roasted in his armor. Riders shouted in Dothraki, picking their way closer with whips and lassos. Overhead, Rhaegal and Viserion dove and twisted, their fire filling the sky in sheets of dazzling light.

“No closer! He’s gone mad!” Ser Jorah bellowed from somewhere on Drogon’s other side. Black despair threatened to swallow him. If even Ser Jorah, who had known Drogon since he was a hatchling, could not approach, that meant Dany . . .

“No. _No_!” he said viciously, blinking the moisture from his eyes.

“Drogon!” Jon shouted, hands spread, picking his way carefully toward the dragon’s head.

A wing struck him, flinging him through the air. Jon landed hard on his back, winded. Coughing, he rolled to his hands and knees, sweat streaming down his face. Jon yanked off his helm and tossed it aside. He staggered to his feet, inching closer, singed by waves of fire.

“Drogon! You have to--”

With startling speed, Drogon turned on him, the massive breadth of his horned head filling Jon’s vision. Gods, the _heat_ of the beast! It nearly burned him standing so close. _Fire made flesh._ Jon’s mouth went dry, his heart thundering. The smell of smoke and blood washed over Jon, his gaze transfixed by Drogon’s amber-red eyes. A low rumbling growl emanated from that massive throat. Jon risked breaking eye contact, seeing Daenerys’ form slumped in the saddle. Something in his chest twisted, cried out.

“Drogon, you have to let us help her. Please!” Jon choked out, a cough tickling his throat at the curling wafts of smoke emanating from Drogon’s maw. Jon peeled off his glove and hovering his hand over Drogon’s snout. The growl grew louder, almost a snarl. Jon risked looking at Daenerys again. The fletching of an arrow caught his eye. The bloody cowards had shot her!

“Daenerys needs help. Let me help her,” he said, both his hand and his voice steady.

Jon waited, trying to emanate an air of calm and control as he did with Ghost. Agonized heartbeats ticked by. Faintly, he heard Ser Jorah and Rakharo call out to him. Drogon’s eyes were unblinking and disturbingly intelligent. With a hot puff of smoke, Drogon lifted his head a fraction. Jon took this as tacit consent and—very slowly—ducked under Drogon’s neck.

“Dany!” Jon said, bracing a boot on Drogon’s spike to reach the buckles.

The leather was slick and dark with blood. It was too much for such a small person to lose. _Gods Dany, what did they do to you?_ Clumsy in his mail-backed gloves, he tore them off with his teeth, tasting blood and steel. He attacked the leather buckles with a vengeance. With a low sound of triumph, he loosened the last buckle.

Jon eased her body into his arms. His muscles screamed, arms quivering as her limp weight landed on him. Jon was as gentle as he could be, half-carrying, half-dragging her away from Drogon. Winded, Jon sat on the damp, steaming ground. He eased her torso into his lap, noticing the pits and dents in her armor. Those bloody fucking _worms_! The rage that filled him should have frightened him, but Jon reveled in it. He would be death and worse to any man of Golden Tooth he could get his hands on.

Drogon’s massive head loomed above him. Every muscle froze, again pierced by his red eyes. The black dragon made a low rumble and surged into the sky, the ground trembling. Jon tore his gaze from Daenerys to watch the dragon’s black shape skim through tendrils of smoke. Would he rage and burn the westerlands to the ground? Drogon’s roar rolled like thunder, cutting off the protests of Rhaegal and Viserion. As Jon watched, the two smaller dragons fell into line at Drogon’s flank and flew back toward the battlefield. 

Jon’s hands shook, hovering over her in an agony of indecision.   _Should I loosen her armor?_ She was so still, so quiet. Jon eased off her helm, brushing the backs of his fingers against her cheek. Her soft skin felt so cold. _No, no, no, please . . ._ He could not bear to finish the thought, or articulate the prayer.

“Dany. Dany, can you hear me?” he said. Even his voice trembled.  

She lay limp, like a discarded puppet. Jon craned his head near her mouth. The din of battle and dragons around them kept him from hearing the soft exhalation of life. Uttering a growl of inarticulate frustration, Jon fumbled at her throat, seeking the leap of her pulse. Yes! There! Weak, but steady. _Alive_. Tears filled his eyes.

“Somebody help! The Queen! She needs a maester!” Jon bellowed. Eyes fixed on her face, he heard the muddle of creaking armor and the crunch of footsteps.

“Snow? How did you--?” Tyrion said.

“At least the dragons decided to find supper instead of razing the field to ash!” Ser Talhart said.

“She’s alive,” Jon said.

“Seven fucking hells, where is that worthless maester?” Ser Jorah said.

“She’s alive!” Jon repeated, with fierce, stubborn faith.

“Come, to the tent!” Ser Barristan said. Jon was loath to release his grip on her, and only consented when a canvas stretcher was brought.

“Be careful!” Jon said, lifting her head and torso as Ser Barristan eased her injured leg. Daenerys did not move or make a sound as they lifted her.

“ _Lajat jin hoyali ki ajjalani, khaleesi_!” Rakharo said, folding her dangling arm over her chest. Two runners manned the stretcher, lifting with gentle haste. Jon felt bereft as the tent flap fell closed behind them. Ghost leaned against his leg in mute comfort.

“Ser Barristan, Rakharo, gather the men. Search out the rest of Lefford’s men, secure the castle--” Tyrion said.

Jon’s temper snapped. He seized Tyrion by the breastplate and yanked him nose to nose. Beside him, Ghost quivered, lips pulled back in a silent snarl.

“Are you so eager to gather power for yourself, _Lannister_?” he growled, rings of mail biting into his curled fingers. Tyrion’s green eyes crackled. His mailed fist struck at Jon’s elbow, breaking the grip. The gold hand painted on his breastplate gleamed in the dragonfire.

“I am her _Hand_ , you idiot! It is my task to carry out her wishes! The small council agreed on this course of action, and I intend to carry it out! Do you think she would want all this bloodshed to be for nothing? Now, _Ser_ , if you will gather your men, you will take this fucking castle. The Queen and her men will need their maester’s stores by night’s end,” Tyrion said.

The rage surged through him, the edges of his vision shook with it. From the tail of his eye, he saw Ser Jorah grip the hilt of his sword. It rested on his tongue just where the Imp could stick his orders, but Jon bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. Honor and oath told him he must obey.

“I am only a hostage. I should stay with the queen,” he said, the words sounded weak to his own ears.

“You ceased being a hostage from the moment the queen knighted you. Snow, you rode from Riverrun at the head of a host!” Ser Jorah said. Jon swallowed hard.

“Then what are your orders, Lord Hand?” The words were spat out around the iron band around his throat.

“Go with Ser Barristan and secure the keep,” Tyrion said. Jon took Flint’s rein from Rakharo and swung astride. Settling into his stirrups and gathering his reins, Jon realized he had neither gloves nor helm. The heavy mist plastered his hair to his head, a cold trickle.

“The queen will have the finest care this side of the Narrow Sea, Snow. Not to mention how fierce she is. She’ll pull through,” Tyrion said. Jon drew Longclaw, the blade gummy with half-dried blood. Turning away from that tent was the hardest thing he had ever done.

“Ser Barristan? The North has your flank. Ghost, with me,” Jon said.

      

It wasn’t until they reached the bailey of Golden Tooth that they found the remnant of Lefford’s force. The Unsullied had battered down the gate. Oak logs thicker than Jon could wrap his arms around were shattered into splinters, hanging askew on their hinges. Ranks of Unsullied crouched beneath the hail of flung stones and burning pitch. Through the visor of his borrowed helm, Jon saw a forest of spears beyond the gate.

“For the Queen!” Ser Barristan said, heeling his sorrel destrier through the gap. Jon rode at his left flank, hacking through several spear hafts. Anger burned through him hot and clean. They hurt her. Flint jumped over a shattered barrel. A knot of spearmen lunged toward him. A shift of weight and touch of heel and Flint balanced on his haunches, creating enough space for Jon to slam his shield down on one’s helm. As he staggered, Jon thrust Longclaw through the chest of another. The third fell under Flint’s hooves. Shrill screams sounded behind him as Ghost fell on enemy soldiers, in perfect silence.

A blow from behind rocked him forward in the saddle. Jon grunted, thankful for the rugged durability of his iron plate. Flint squealed, as Jon twisted in the saddle he saw the spearman who struck him crumple under Flint’s striking legs. Jon patted his mount’s neck, urging him after the thrust of Ser Barristan’s men. They hurt her!

“ _Winter is Coming_!” Jon bellowed. His men shouted in answer behind him, surging through the gap. Arrows rained down from the keep. Jon raised his shield, catching several arrows, though one bounced off his breastplate. Another struck Flint in the shoulder; he neighed in pain. Cowards! Worms! Jon slashed and struck with his shield, filled with a terrible strength. _They hurt her!_

“Onward! We’ve breached the keep!” Ser Barristan shouted, his sword gleaming red with blood. Jon slewed Flint to one side.

“Form up! Tight formation, archers in the center!” Jon said.

A group of Dothraki mounted archers and northern longbowmen clustered between the cavalry. Once the horses battered their way through any advancing spearmen, the archers could provide cover.

Jon lost count of how many Lannister men advanced. His arms ached, winded from heavy fighting. Step by step, Lefford’s men made them pay in blood. A shout pierced the pounding urgency of strike, slash, parry and surge.

“ _Victory_!” Kovarro said from a battlement, brandishing a severed head. Whether it was Lefford or one of lieutenants, it didn’t matter. The remaining Lannister men broke rank and fell under ruthless Unsullied spears.

“How did he get up there?” Ser Talhart said, shoving up his visor to squint through the mist.

“Rakharo sent Kovarro and a dozen men with spikes to scale the keep. Looks like it worked,” Jon said. He shoved up the visor, sucking in deep breaths of cool, rain-scented air. Tyrion trotted into the bailey along with the Unsullied honor guard. To his credit, there was mud and gore on the Hand’s armor too. Rakharo said he was deft hand with an axe.

“ _Fire and Blood_!” Tyrion shouted. The Queen’s men answered him.

“Snow, I need you,” Ser Barristan said, “there is work to be done.”

 

Room by room, floor by floor, Jon and his men swept like a vengeful flood through the keep. Every cobwebbed corner, every drain pipe and garderobe was thoroughly inspected. Jon kicked open another cellar door to find barrels of grain and wine, wrapped packages of meat and bins of oil. The dense, dusty smell of soil and vegetables washed over him.         

“Lefford did not expect to retreat,” Jon said, smoothing Ghost’s blood-splattered fur.

“Aye. If he was smart, he would have moved the stores, or put the keep to torch when he saw us closing in. Shall--” Jon lifted a hand to cut off Ser Talhart’s words. Ghost’s ears pricked.

_There_! A creak behind a barrel. Jon drew his dirk. At his signal, he and Talhart lunged into the storeroom. The huddled form squeaked. Not soldiers, but a knot of women in dirty homespun. They scuttled away from the torchlight, like frightened vermin. The three of them clung to each other, sniffing softly. Upon seeing Jon in blood-splattered iron armor with a naked blade glinting in the light, not to mention the shadow of a giant direwolf, they dissolved into wracking sobs.

“Mercy, sir! Please!” one said, throwing herself at his feet. She looked to be roughly Lady Stark’s age, dark hair threaded with grey.

“Are there any soldiers?” Ser Talhart demanded. When the woman’s mouth worked like a landed fish, the stocky knight took a step toward her.

“Soldiers. Speak, woman!”

“No! The soldiers fled. They left us behind!” another woman said, looking no older than Jon himself. The third wept softly, barely more than a child. Surrounded by stores of food and their cheeks were gaunt with hunger, clothing threadbare. Lannister scum!

“Men of the north do not abuse innocents,” Jon said, sheathing his dirk. He offered a hand to the woman at his feet. Her eyes were fixed on Ghost, her body trembling.

“I am Jon Snow, and this is Ghost. He won’t hurt you,” he said. “I’m a . . . a knight in service of Daenerys of House Targaryen who will be liberating this castle. You will be treated well. What is your name?”

“A knight! I’m M—Maycey Hill, Ser. Scullery maid for Lord Lefford. These are my daughters Alora and Aline. Good girls, maidens both. We’re good folk, Ser. Please, Ser . . .” Jon felt a pang of sympathy. No doubt they had been fed horror stories of the ravaging army at their doorstep: dragons, Dothraki screamers, a foreign queen.

“It’s all right. As I said, we do not abuse innocents. Come, we will find you a bite to eat,” Jon said, trying to smile as he steered her out of the storeroom. Her arm felt like two sticks tied together by ragged homespun, so thin.

The three Hill women clung to each other, skittering around Jon’s men as they met up with Ser Barristan’s force in the great hall. The elderly knight mopped sweat and soot from his face with a handkerchief. His white hair held a greyish caste from the filth of battle.

“How goes it, Ser Snow?” he asked, leaning on his great axe. The pitted blade was thick with blood—he’d found Lefford men, then. The great hall bustled with activity, knots of men coming and going, ushering straggling smallfolk found while searching the keep, gathering discarded weapons or armor, or dragging bodies to be thrown in the nearest crag.

“Only a few scullery maids, Ser Barristan. Every closet and storeroom on the east wing accounted for,” Jon said, accepting the skin offered him. Squeezing the leather bag, a stream of cool water hit his parched throat. With a grunt of relief, Jon gulped, then sprayed his face and hair for good measure before passing it to Ser Talhart.

“Good,” Ser Barristan said.

“Y—You’re Barristan the Bold?” Young Aline Hill stuttered from her mother’s embrace. Ser Barristan stood a little straighter and made a creaking, courtly bow—difficult when clad in full plate.

“Yes, I am. At your service, Lady Hill,” he said, kindness warm in his voice.

“I saw you at a tourney at Casterly Rock. You knocked Jamie Lannister in the dirt! I told my girls about you,” Maycey Hill said, admiration shining in her rheumy eyes.

“Why, thank you. We will see you cared for,” Ser Barristan said, summoning one of his squires to usher the ladies away.

“Quite popular with the smallfolk, Ser Barristan,” Ser Talhart said, as the rest of Jon’s men filtered into the great hall. A quick glance around found neither maester nor healer, nor small council member.

“Where is the maester tending the wounded?” Jon demanded. Ser Barristan met Jon’s eye and he quailed at the sorrow and sympathy there.

“The Queen is being tended in the lord’s chamber.” Jon did not wait to be given leave, instead turning and climbing the stairs three at a time. Ghost padded at his heels, claws clacking on the polished stone.

“Find Ser Jorah, Snow!” Ser Barristan called after him.

The Queensguard in question stood outside the paneled door to Lefford’s former chamber, decorated in geometric patterns of stamped gold leaf. Ser Jorah, still in his grimy armor, half-dead with exhaustion, barred Jon’s way with a strong, burly arm.

“I cannot let you in, Snow. I’m under strict orders from her Hand to let the healers work. The maester is tending her,” Ser Jorah said. Jon swayed on his feet. The rage and energy was quickly deserting him. His legs felt like overcooked noodles. Jon raked a hand through his hair.

“How bad is it, Jorah? Is she awake? Tell me that, at least.” Ser Jorah looked as if every one of his years weighed heavily on him.

“She’s awake. Maester Jaron said she had a blow to the head, three broken ribs, not to mention the fucking arrow in her leg. From her pallor he guessed she lost half the blood in her body. She proved her mettle today on the field.”

“Blood of the dragon,” Jon said, choked. Broken ribs? A blow to the head? Jon’s throat closed.

A muffled scream shattered the air. Jon moved without thinking. He hooked a foot behind Ser Jorah’s and shouldered him to the ground. A man on his back in plate armor was as slow as an upturned turtle. Kicking the door open, Jon lunged into the room. Maester Jaron blinked at him, hunched over Daenerys’ supine form on the massive bed. He looked like a ghoul, gloved and smocked in white linen, even wearing a square leather mask over his nose and mouth.

“Ser Snow? Get out! I could have injured Her Grace had you entered a second later!” Maester Jaron said, his voice muffled.

Jon dismissed him, locking eyes with Daenerys. Her violet eyes pleaded with him. The fucking assistant had shoved a stick into her mouth to muffle her cries!

“I’m not going anywhere. Did you even give her milk of the poppy? It sounded like you were amputating a limb!” he snapped.  

Jon stomped across the thick dark blue carpet, shoving the waifish assistant aside to kneel beside her. Missandei wept softly in the corner, wringing her hands.

 Daenerys’ grip was strong when he clasped her hand, but her skin still felt cold. Jon kneaded her hand between his to share his warmth.

“After the blow she suffered to her head, if I dosed her with milk of the poppy, there is a good chance she might not wake--”

“Seven hells, Snow! I’ll beat you bloody!” Ser Jorah snarled, dirk drawn.

“Remove yourself from my surgery, Ser Jorah!” Maester Jaron said.

“I’m not going _anywhere_ ,” Jon said, quiet and emphatic.

“Your Grace?” the maester said, “may Snow . . .?”  Teeth clenched around the gag, Daenerys nodded. She looked almost skeletal, bone pale with her white teeth clenched around the stick.

“Fine,” Ser Jorah said, shoving his blade home, “Have courage, Your Grace.” The door slammed shut behind him. 

“Gods above, may we get to work?” the maester said. Daenerys nodded again.

“Snow, make sure your animal doesn’t stick its nose into anything,” the maester said.

“Ghost, down,” Snow said. Ghost obeyed, his warm weight solid against Jon’s back.  

Maester Jaron gripped the arrow shaft in her thigh. Jon’s stomach felt hollow at the sight of it buried in her perfect skin, weeping a sluggish trail of blood. Goose quills framed the arrowhead, attempting to remove the barbs without damaging her leg even more. On march with Robb, he’d seen the healer do the same. The assistants had removed her armor and gambeson, leaving her in only her linen smallclothes. Gooseflesh stippled her skin. Her ribs were splinted tightly with cloth. The sheet beneath her was dark with half-dried blood.

“It will be all right. A quick pull and you’ll feel better,” Jon said, watching her eyes dart from face to face.

 “Brace yourself, Your Grace. It is imperative that you stay as still as possible.” Above the mask, Maester Jaron’s blue eyes were eloquent with sympathy. Jon squeezed her hand in comfort as the assistants braced her arms and legs. Her breath whistled through her nostrils. Daenerys gave another tight nod.

“On the count of three.” Jon stroked her hand with his thumb. _Breathe . . . breathe . . ._

“One . . .” the maester fiddled with the quills. Daenerys clenched her eyes tightly shut.

“Two--” he yanked the arrow out in one clean motion, blotting up the blood with a wad of lint. A startled screech made its way out, and she was left trembling.

“Good. Good, that’s better, hmm?” Jon said, smoothing back sweat-damp tendrils of her silver hair. A faint _tink_ and the bloody arrowhead was tossed in a tin bowl.

“I must cleanse with wound, and pack the wound before you lose any more blood. I must work quickly. This will hurt.”

The exhaled breath around the gag could have been a sob. His heart gave a sharp flip inside his chest, there was a hot taste in his mouth. If Jon could have traded places with her, he would have in a heartbeat. She met his eye and in them he saw her pain, her fear. Jon held her gaze, knowing she needed him to be strong.

The maester’s gloved hands moved quickly, a glass syringe poised over the opening of the wound, containing a cloudy, red-tinged substance. _Gods, firemilk_. Jon swallowed hard. He’d seen grown men take all manner of abuse without flinching and then fall to pieces weeping when the healers cleansed their wounds. Common soldiers used boiling wine, but true to a maester, he had stores of firemilk or Myrish fire to cleanse wounds. Jon knew from experience how it fucking _burned_ —enough to make a strong man wish he was dead.        

Daenerys’ body arched on the bed, every muscle stretched eloquent with agony. Hot tears leaked from clenched eyes. Jon squeezed her hand, trying to push strength toward her. Her screams and wails were muffled by the gag. The maester paused his work. She lay limp and trembling, turning her face aside to hide her wet sniffling. The room reeked of sweat, blood, and the sharp tang of firemilk. Throat thick with tears, Jon coughed.

“Breathe, you can breathe now. It’s over. It’s over,” Jon said, stroking her hand. Daenerys dragged in a shaking breath through her nose, blinking through tear-clotted lashes. The maester began packing the hole with salt and moist lint.

“There, it’s done Your Grace. I’ll leave you to your tending,” Maester Jaron said, gently squeezing her foot. Daenerys spat out the gag and drew a deep, shaky breath.

“Jon.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. Jon pressed his forehead to hers.

“I’m here. I’m here.”  

 

 

 

Dothraki translation: _‘Lajat jin hoyali ki ajjalani, khaleesi,’ ‘Fight the song of the night, queen!'_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Comments appreciated! FYI, I hope to update again next week, but real life is intruding into my writing time.


	13. Part XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Convalescence

Part XIII

 

“Daenerys Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. Khaleesi. Mother of Dragons. The Unburnt. Does that satisfy?” Maester Jaron’s tired eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Aye, Your Grace. That will do.”

“I suppose you’ll return in an hour and ask again?” Daenerys said, wincing as she shifted her leg on its nest of pillows. The firemilk’s seething burn had ebbed to a duller, healing throb, but the wound was quick to remind her with a sharp jolt if she moved too quickly. A headache pounded at her temples, throbbing with each beat of her heart. Her chest too, felt as if a blunt object were lodged between her ribs with each deep breath.

Dawn was beginning to break over Golden Tooth and the smoldering battlefield beyond the castle. Sleep, if any found her, was fitful. This was due in large part to the measter’s prompt hourly visits to state her name, where she was, etc.

“Yes, Your Grace. After suffering a blow to the head, we must be sure your thoughts do not become addled,” he said. Daenerys relented. The maester’s skin was nearly as grey as his blood-splattered robes, yet his responses were soft-spoken and patient despite her sniping.

“I have ones who can tend to me, Maester. Seek your bed,” she said. Jon—still in his armor—sat on the near side of the bed, head pillowed on his folded arms on the lip of the mattress, snoring softly. His direwolf lay sprawled on the carpet, watching her with cool red eyes.

“Oh no, Your Grace. I’m fine. There a couple more in the infirmary I shall check on before I return,” he said, reaching into his voluminous sleeves.

“In the meantime, I think this would safe enough,” he said, producing a square of linen. Daenerys accepted the package and untied the string. Looking at the contents, she looked back to the maester with a dubious frown.

“It looks like bark,” she said. This time the maester did smile, a twitch of lip beneath his red beard.

“Very astute, Your Grace. It _is_ bark. White willow bark, in fact. A painkiller.”

“I . . . chew it?”

“Aye. You needn’t eat it. Just chew and spit it out when it no longer tastes like the tea left in the pot for a week. When I return, I will look at the bandage as well.”

“Thank you, Maester Jaron,” she said. He bowed and took his leave, his chain jangling with each step. Bidding the thought of sleep a fond farewell at the maester’s promised torture, Daenerys picked a square of bark from the nest of linen and popped it in her mouth. The texture was coarse, but no worse than old horse jerky she’d supped on amongst the Dothraki. The worst part the strongly bitter taste that made her mouth and eyes water.

Blinking away tears, Daenerys’ gaze wandered over Leo Lefford’s personal bedchamber, appointed in the house colors of dark blue and gold. A pair of sconces had been torn from the walls, blackened stone looked forlorn over the doorway. _I’m surprised he didn’t tear down the canopy too._ The cloth was fine dark blue cambric, washed to a faint sheen.

Missandei lay curled on a pallet by the fire; she’d earned rest. After she helped blot the worst of the blood and sweat, comb Daenerys’ hair, fetch her tea, she had shadowed the healers to assist with translation. Daenerys spit out a piece of bark and selected another, forcing herself to chew. It felt strange and lonely to be surrounded by her sleeping confidantes.

Her gaze wandered to Jon. Her heart gave a sweet lurch in her chest. He had fought for her, comforted her; his presence felt steady, warm and entirely essential. Daenerys blinked, realizing his eyes were open.

“’Morning,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. Daenerys spat out the pieces of bark and smiled at him. Her mouth and throat felt coarse, as if she’d swallowed sand.

“Good morning,” she said, a little shy.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, sitting up.

A crease in the sheet left an imprint on his cheek. The sight felt strangely intimate. Jon winced as he rolled his shoulders. She knew from experience how uncomfortable it was to sleep in armor.

“Fair, as long as I don’t move,” she said, gesturing toward the linen pooled in her hand, “the maester has given me willow bark to chew.” Jon wrinkled his nose.

“Nasty stuff,” he said.

“Honest truth,” she said, tossing the wad of linen on the sideboard. She eyed the carafe of watered wine, just beyond her reach. Jon rose and poured a cup for both of them.

“Thank you,” she said, draining the glass in one pass. Jon scowled into his cup.

“Dany, we have to talk ab--”

A soft rap at the door interrupted them.

“Your Grace?” Tyrion’s voice floated from beyond the door.

“Enter, Lord Hand,” she said with a hint of sharpness, smoothing the blue coverlet over her lap. Ser Jorah admitted her Hand, catching her eye to smile. Daenerys’ irritation softened at the sight of her loyal Queensguard. _My old bear._

Tyrion, though clad in a clean tunic with his Hand’s badge, looked no better than any of them. Dark circles hung under his eyes, his pallor cast the jagged scar in sharp relief. His green eyes grazed over Jon.

“Ser Snow,” he said, clipped.

“Lord Hand,” Jon replied, rising. His gaze was shuttered, distant. Daenerys wondered at the sudden tension between them.

“I should go--”

“If you wish,” Tyrion said, shuffling his sheaf of papers between his hands, “one of these days you’ll have to tell me how you convinced Drogon not to burn you to a broody crisp.”

Daenerys blinked, startled. She hadn’t given much thought to how she’d been separated from Drogon after fainting. Drogon allowed _Jon_ to touch him? Jon shrugged with his usual laconic indifference.

“No different than gentling a direwolf, I suppose,” Jon said.     

“You may go, Ser. Seek your bed,” Daenerys said, fighting the feeling of loss. Jon strode from the room without a backward glance, Ghost trotting after him.

“A puzzle, that one,” Tyrion said, taking the stool Jon had vacated. Daenerys cut a terse gesture, grimacing as a shock sang down her leg.

“Report, Lord Tyrion,” she said. Tyrion laid his sheaf of documents on the bed and cleared his throat. All told, she’d lost a little over three hundred men, mostly Dothraki. Their horses suffered most among the westerland crags.

“I would like a list of their names,” she said, her throat tight. It never grew easier to lose men. _They look to me for protection, and I ask them to lay down their lives for me._

“Of course, Your Grace. I will speak with Rakharo.”

Scores more injured, some by dragonfire. Her children’s fire did not discriminate. According to Tyrion, after she had been carried off, her dragons had contented themselves to feed on dead horses and oxen. Lefford’s men had been decimated. No trace of them had been found. Lefford himself, had fallen to Kovarro’s _arakh_ , his head now mounted on a spike outside the gate.

“‘ _And now the rains weep o’er his halls_ ,’” she quoted. Tyrion’s smirk was weak.

“Yes, Your Grace. You quite possibly erased a great house from existence. Lefford’s two sons were found among the dead,” Tyrion said.

The conversation turned toward cremation and burial of the dead, consolidation of supplies and garrisoning the castle, ravens scrolls that required her seal. The bark had done some good, she noted. The pain in her leg had quieted to a whisper, though her head still pounded. It was as if a demented dwarf beat a large drum inside her skull. The briefing took some time; outside Daenerys heard the bell chime the hour.

“After the men break their fast, gather them in the bailey. We can have Ser Jorah help me.”

“Your Grace, you’re still injured . . .”

“The men need to see me walking on my own power, the Dothraki especially. ‘ _Khal fini laz vos dothrao, vos khal.’”_ At Tyrion’s blank look, Daenerys translated.

“A king who cannot ride is no king. Dothraki respect only strength.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Tyrion said.

A quiet moment passed as they shared a cup of watered wine. Tyrion grimaced at the taste—perhaps it was a poor vintage. Daenerys did not have his refined pallet, and the drink was cool and plentiful for her parched throat. Perhaps she was hoarse from screaming last night. The maester encouraged her to drink as much as she could stomach to replenish the fluids she’d lost.

“I didn’t have much choice after taking the arrow. I was on my way back to the rear guard when a group of soldiers called for my help. I fainted soon after,” she said, shifting to a more comfortable position on the nest of pillows. Tyrion smirked.

“That is what I told the rest of the small council. I never took you for an idiot. Brave, headstrong, certainly. But not an idiot.” Daenerys arched a brow at him.

“The highest compliment in your book, hmm?”

“The highest,” he agreed. After a beat, he cleared his throat.

“Your Grace, it’s none of my business, but Ser Snow--” Disliking his tone, she interrupted: “You’re right, it’s none of your business.”

“—he was frantic when he saw you injured. I commanded him to press on and take the castle. He looked like he wanted to murder me for ordering him from your side.” Daenerys’ hands fisted in the coverlet, buoyed by a soul-deep warmth laced with an equally sharp fear.

“What are you saying?”

“All I’m saying is that as your Ha—as your _friend_ —I cannot be the only one who has noticed his longing stares. Or your preference for him. If you are truly considering a match with Robb Stark . . .” Tyrion spread his ringed hands in a questioning gesture.

“A marriage to what end? Stark swore me his swords, rode south at my side.”

“Yes, it is a moot point now. But a bastard, even a knight, is not a fit consort either.” _I could legitimize him. A stroke of a pen would make him a Stark. A Stark with the blood of the First Men, the Kings of Winter._

“I am aware of that. That will be all, Lord Tyrion,” she said, uncomfortable with how close his words echoed her council. Her Hand made no demur.

“In that case, I shall see to it that the men are gathered in the bailey.” Tyrion took his leave and Daenerys summoned Missandei. The young woman scurried to her side, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Together, they began the awkward, laborious process of hopping to the privy closet. Leaning on Missandei added uncomfortable pressure on her ribs, and her head swam with the movement. They staggered like drunken dancers across the carpet. Daenerys finished in the privy, and Missandei helped her out of her sweat-damp gown. Missandei, armed with a soaped cloth and hot water, quickly scrubbed Daenerys’ skin pink.

Gooseflesh stippled her skin despite the heat of the brazier and she shivered, clinging to the privy screen. She bit her lip to keep her teeth from chattering. The willow bark was a thin defense, her entire body _throbbed_. She swayed, and, overbalanced, staggered on her bad leg. There was a sharp tug, a warm gush, and a trickle of blood seeped from under the bandage. Daenerys cursed. Missandei pressed a wad of clean lint to the bandage, young face creased with concern.

“Your Grace, are you well?”

“As well as can be expected,” she said through clenched teeth. _Weak as a kitten and just as useless._

“That will have to do until the maester returns,” she said, admiring Missandei’s swift, gentle touch as she wound cloth around the blood-saturated lint.

“Here, Your Grace,” Missandei said, urging her to lift her arms like a child as she slid a clean shift over her. Warmth embraced her, the fine silk holding the lingering heat of the brazier. Daenerys uttered a soft sound of pleasure. Cupping Missandei’s cheek, she mustered a smile.

“Thank you, my friend.” Missandei’s answering smile was bashful, but genuine.

The steps separating them from the bed yawned like a chasm. By the time she collapsed back into bed, red spots danced before her eyes. Daenerys kneaded her forehead, nursing a raging headache. Her face felt cold, clammy, so she focused on deep breaths. In . . . and out. In . . . and out.

“Your Grace?”

Daenerys waved a weak hand, urging her on. Missandei’s deft hands combed and oiled and styled her hair with practiced grace. Soft leather slippers and a long black gown, cinched loose and draping. Daenerys chose golden jewelry: bangles and earrings, long, looping necklaces, and a diadem of twisted gold and silver, twined with short spires of black iron, white gold and aged copper. Gold mines were the pride of Golden Tooth, and Casterly Rock beyond. To wear their symbol would be a comment on her status as conqueror.

“Fetch both Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan,” she said. Rakharo and her bloodriders would be amongst their men in the bailey. To be flanked by her Queensguard was to legitimize her position amongst any Westerosi watching. Both knights entered with murmured courtesies. She felt a pang at the sight of their grubby armor and exhausted pallor. _I will rotate Unsullied captains and my bloodriders on guard duty. My knights need rest._

“Are you well, Your Grace?” Ser Barristan asked.

“Fine. Let us finish this and seek a little rest after, hmm?” she said with a weary smile.   

Golden Tooth’s keep was equipped with a private balcony overlooking the bailey. Outside, she heard a cacophony of voices, the clatter of hooves on stone, the creak of iron-rimmed wagon wheels. Dimly, she heard Tyrion’s voice from below.

“Welcome the Queen, Daenerys Targaryen!”

The answering cry rose louder than thunder, punctuated by the din of applause and whistling. Her Queensguard shoved open the twin doors and she limped on her own power the five agonizing steps to the broad stone railing. Cold wind buffeted her, raising gooseflesh, the dazzling sun stabbed her eyes. Beyond Golden Tooth’s walls threads of smoke rose from the battlefield, the road east a dull grey snake meandering through dun crags.

The cheering rose to a fever pitch as she lifted her arm in a sweeping wave. Below among the deep grey of Golden Tooth’s stone was a sea of bodies, skin tones varying from deep brown to copper to white and every shade in between. Armor gleamed, clothing offered flashes of color among the monotony. Westerosi and Essosi alike raised their banners beneath hers in celebration. Daenerys’ heart tightened. Her army, to a man sworn to live and die by her word. Such power.

Such terrible responsibility.

She raised her hand for silence. The noise abated only slightly.

“We have won a great victory!” Daenerys swept an arm to encompass Golden Tooth and its lands.

“The key to the west. We have lost brothers, and tonight we will mourn them. But because of their sacrifice, I know we will triumph! We will triumph against our enemies and rush like a flood over Westeros. Together we are strong! Together we will conquer! _Khaleesi dothrae!_ _Valar morghulis_! Fire and Blood!” Though her body complained, Daenerys could help but smile when her men cried out in exultation, in promise.

A gust of wind battered her, and she stumbled against the railing. Jaw clenched against a cry of pain, she felt the warm trickle of blood down her leg. Struck by inspiration, she swiped her fingers through the blood-soaked cloth and raised her arm.

“Look, my riders, my warriors! Together we have bled and conquered!” she shouted, ignoring the pang in her ribs, the twin throb in her head. The noise seemed impossible as her men shouted for her, pounding their armor or their shields in a terrifying din. 

_“Daenerys! Daenerys!”_

_“Khaleesi!”_

“ _Jelmāzmo_!”

Daenerys basked in the cheers until it died down enough for Tyrion to excuse her. The first step on her bad leg nearly sent her to her knees with a lightning bolt of white hot pain. By the fourth, tears clotted her lashes. Ser Barristan closed the doors behind them and she fell into Ser Jorah’s arms. Daenerys trembled, weakness stealing over her like a fever. Head, chest, leg, every injured part of her screamed.

“Fetch Maester Jaron,” she said, leaning into Ser Jorah as she half-limped, half-dragged herself back to the bed.

“Right away, khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said. Sucking in careful, shallow breaths, Daenerys fisted her hands in the coverlet.

“Bring me . . . bring me Jon Snow.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A short chapter, but more up next week! Hopefully I can keep this pace up!


	14. Part XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Golden Tooth hospitality

Part XIV

 

“Ser Snow, the queen asked for you,” Missandei said. Jon pushed back from the trestle table where he sat breaking his fast with his men in the great hall.

“Is she well?” he asked under his breath when he reached her. A furtive glance at his men saw they returned to their conversation. If there was comment on him being summoned again to the queen’s side, they made no mention of it. Missandei’s face was relaxed, only the slightest hint of tension in her narrow shoulders. Jon felt his muscles loosen by a fraction.

On the balcony, she had looked every inch a daughter of kings and dragonriders: powerful, beautiful, otherworldly. Her ferocity radiated off her like the glitter of a diamond’s facets. Had the bloody-minded woman overexerted herself? Exasperation felt easier than anxiety. Ghost didn’t seem concerned, panting in the shade beneath the table.

“Feeling injured, weak, and despising every moment of it,” Missandei said, leading him up the stair. Ghost stayed where he was, eyeing the ham bone left carelessly on the edge of the trestle. Threading through the bustling halls of Golden Tooth’s cramped keep, Jon bumped into Maester Jaron, looking thinner and greyer than he did at dawn. The vague worry sharpened, pricking him a bit.

“Ah Ser Snow,” he said with a weary twitch of lip.

“Is the Queen well?” Jon asked.

“Oh yes. Stepped just right, making the wound bleed again. Her ribs are another matter. Missandei, you must remind her that activity and shouting will only make the pain worse. She needs _rest_.”

“I will tell her, sir,” Missandei promised.

“And how is that burn on your arm, Ser? Did the honey poultice help?” the maester asked, peering at the lump on Jon’s left forearm. Jon hadn’t even noticed Drogon’s fire seared his arm from wrist to elbow until this morning, when removing his bracer pained him.

“I washed it with witch hazel, like you told me. Not even a twinge now,” Jon said, rolling his wrist to prove it.

“Good. Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll sample some of that mouth-watering ham I smell and find my bed,” he said.

“Thank you, Maester,” Missadei said.

The two of them walked in silence through Golden Tooth’s narrow halls, and Jon glanced at her sidelong. How much did the young woman know of what lived between him and Daenerys? There were few who were closer to the queen than Missandei who was maidservant, translator, and companion. Besides, she had seen Jon staggering into his trousers from the queen’s bed at Riverrun! Was Missandei’s discretion a sign that men in the queen’s rooms was commonplace? Jon scowled at the thought.

No time to ponder as they approached the gold doors leading to the lord’s chamber. Instead of the Queensguard knights, Aggo and Kovarro stood guard.

“Snow of the Wolf Tent!” Kovarro said, punching his shoulder in a customarily rough Dothraki greeting.

“Kovarro, Slayer of Lannisters,” Jon said with a smirk.

“How is your dapple?” Kovarro asked, twisting his _arakh_ in lazy rings.

“He is well. The salve Aggo suggested worked on the arrow wounds.”

“Horses heal fast,” Aggo’s said in his craggy voice. It took Jon weeks of practice to understand him between his thick accent and his habit of speaking out of the corner of his mouth. Aggo gave them a curt nod as he opened the door.

“Your Grace, Ser Jon Snow,” Missandei said as they entered.

Jon sought Daenerys, who looked paler than the sheet she lay swathed in. Her expression caught a fine balance between irritated and rueful. Missandei poured another cup of watered wine and handed it to the queen. Jon admired the calm, smooth grace that flowed from Missandei’s hands as she moved. Shaking the carafe, Jon heard a muted slosh.

“I shall fetch you more wine, Your Grace. Do you need anything else?” Daenerys’ smile was wan.

“Maybe a heel of bread? Fried eggs if there are any to be had,” she said, her voice a hoarse croak. _A humble meal,_ he thought. Missandei gathered the soiled lint and linen bandages in a basket to be washed.

“And you, Ser? May I bring you anything?” Missandei asked, her amber-brown eyes intent on him.

“Uh, I’m fine. Thank you,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. The queen’s own maidservant offering to fetch and carry for him. _I’ve come a long way from the bastard boy shipped to the Wall._ Missandei stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind her with a deft swing of her hip. Faintly, he heard Kovarro’s low voice greet her.

Silence settled between them, a fire crackled in the grate. Heavy cambric curtains were drawn over the balcony doors, casting the room in warm, blue-tinged shadow. It was the first time they’d been alone together since Riverrun. Jon cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the images that brought to mind. Sweat dewed beneath his leather jerkin; the room felt too hot.  

“You summoned me, Your Grace?” he said. Daenerys smoothed the coverlet, meeting his eye.

“I did, and I must apologize for taking you from your command. I cannot manage _cyvasse_ at the moment.” Jon smirked.

Both of them were awkward, fumbling for the previous ease between them, the easy flow of conversation over a _cyvasse_ board. It was a comfort to him that she was at a loss too. Robb’s choice to ride south shifted the balance between them. As a knight instead of a hostage, he now rode with the men placed under his command instead of at the head of the column alongside her. He ate and slept amongst his men. She had not summoned him, and he had not sought her out.

“The men are eating and dicing. The castle’s secure. The Dothraki saw to it the horses were grazed. Ser Barristan and Lord Tyrion have selected the guard for the next several watches. After last night, I’m sure by noontime most of Golden Tooth will be fast asleep,” Jon said, taking his ease on the stool beside her bed. His hand twitched, intending to curl around hers. After a moment’s deliberation, he let his hand fall back into his lap. No longer the queen’s hostage, nor her lover, what was he to her?

If Daenerys saw his conflict, she chose not to address it. There was a furrowed place between her brows, of pain, he thought, as she shifted to a more comfortable position. Her eyes too seemed a paler, sharper blue, as if the wound had leached some of her color.

“Before you scold me about last night, I was on my way to find the maester. A group of soldiers called for my help. I couldn’t let them die.” There was a defensive challenge in her tone that made him smile. Jon digested her words. His mouth curved. Scolding words _had_ rested on his tongue, but he swallowed them.

“I understand. Battle is chaos. You go in with a plan, but when it goes to hell, you do the best you can. It’s just . . .”

“My children,” she said, her hoarse voice holding notes of regret. Daenerys took a long gulp from her cup. Jon nodded.

“Aye. Without you, they’re as likely to kill _us_ as the enemy.”

Daenerys eyed him with speculative gleam, rolling the cup between her hands. It was a sturdy thing, of heavy pewter studded with square lozenges of onyx.

“Yet you were able to pull me from Drogon.” Jon offered a wry smile, gesturing to his bandaged arm.

“Not without difficulty.”

“I’m glad you are well,” she said, letting the topic drop.

The conversation meandered through the state of camp, anecdotes from the battle, speculation on what other traps the westerland lords laid in store. Missandei returned bearing a covered tray.

“The cook was adamant that _Mhysa_ not only have four fried eggs, but a fresh loaf of bread and a sweet roll. To restore your strength,” she said with a smile.

“Thank you,” Daenerys said.

Missandei settled the hinged legs of the tray over Daenerys’ lap, and took the lid with a flourish. A soft burst of steam and the scent of yeasty bread and cinnamon wafted in the air. Despite the ham and gravy with which he’d broken his fast, his stomach gave an embarrassingly loud rumble at the scent of food. Daenerys chuckled and tore the loaf and handed him half. Grinning, he scraped a pat of butter from the edge of her plate—dodging her half-hearted swipe—and tore off a bite. The sourdough was tangy and soft beneath the golden crust, almost melting in his mouth.

“That will be all, Missandei. I think I’ll sleep a while once the food settles,” Daenerys said.

Missandei nodded, entirely unperturbed. Jon swallowed the wad of bread with a hard gulp. Should he leave? Had Daenerys tacitly dismissed them both? Fussily, the young woman smoothed the coverlet, adjusted the carafe to be within easy reach, along with a silver bell.

“As you say, Your Grace. Ring if you need me,” Missandei said as she took her leave. The door shut behind her with a dull thud.

“Should I--” Jon moved to rise. Daenerys caught his hand.

“Jon, stay.” Though meant as a command, there was a quaver beneath the words that tugged at his heart. Body and soul, she’d snared him.

“I’ll stay,” he said, relieved. Her answering smile was a brilliant flash of white teeth.

Silence settled between them as she tucked into her meal, eggs seasoned with butter and black pepper. She even deigned to share a few forkfuls with him.

“Why do they call you _Mhysa_?” he asked, chewing.

“It’s a Ghiscari word. It means ‘mother,’” she said. Jon watched her mop up runny egg yolk with a heel of bread.

“As in Mother of Dragons?” he said with a smirk.

The sweet roll they shared. Jon tore off a sticky piece of the squared off loaf baked in cinnamon and drizzled with honey. The sweetness burst on his tongue, a soft, melting bite. A shadow fell over her eyes.

“Yes. My dragons are all I have. I am barren. I can never have children.” The words, so starkly said, struck him hard. Jon fumbled for the right words: “How—Who told you that?” Daenerys took a long drink from her cup, a slight grimace marring her features.

“The witch who killed my husband, Khal Drogo. She said I will have a child again ‘ _When the sun rises in the west, and sets in the east. When the rivers run dry and the mountains blow in the wind, like leaves._ ’”

Daenerys sank back on the heap of pillows, head bowed. The years hadn’t healed the wound, it was still raw and seeping blood. Jon’s jaw clenched, awash with sympathy. He longed to embrace her, find words to soothe her, though there were none. Instead he took her hand, weaving their fingers together. Such an easy thing, to take her hand. Daenerys squeezed his captive hand. Jon cleared his throat and said: “This was before the dragons hatched?” The words seemed to help, her eyes glittered.

“Yes. I . . . I walked into the flames.”

Tension sang through him. Had she loved the Dothraki khal so dearly that she sought to join him in fire?

“When the fire died, I was unhurt. With my children curled to my breast.”

“The Unburnt,” Jon said, unable to keep the tinge of awe from his voice. _A title earned._ Daenerys’ lips curved without humor.

“All I wanted was a home. A home where all the doors are red . . .”

“The color of House Targaryen?” Jon asked, pierced by her words. Wasn’t that a bastard’s truest wish? Home. _Belonging_. Daenerys’s thumb stroked his index finger.

“No. When Viserys and I fled the Usurper’s assassins to Braavos, there was an old house with a red door. Old Ser Darry was kind to me. The closest thing to home I ever had.” Jon nodded. Winterfell was home, where he’d grown up among family. A father and siblings who loved him, even if in an oblique way. Daenerys had suffered from the moment she took her first breath.

Jon rose, setting aside the dishes, plucking the cup from her hand and dropped it hastily on the sideboard. Jon carefully crawled into bed beside her, tucking her head beneath his chin. Instead of protest or a sharply pointed remark, Daenerys _melted_ into him with a harsh sigh. Gods, her surrender was a potent blow to the heart. Daenerys Stormborn was steel and diamond, fire and blood to her enemies. To peel back her armor and have her reach for him choked him with grateful tears.

Nestled beside Daenerys, feeling her breath flutter at his throat, feeling the delicious solidness of her arms around him made his chest hurt. _This is home._ It was a sweet, unbearable thought. One he knew he couldn’t voice just yet.

“When you break the wheel, you can build whatever home you like. And I’ll be there to help,” he whispered into her cloud of silver hair.

“Stay with me, Jon,” Daenerys croaked, burying her face in his throat. He felt a warm dampness, the wet tickle of her tears. His throat closed and he struggled to keep his grip gentle.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The silence was only broken by the murmur of the fire and Daenerys as she wept. Jon rubbed her arms, crooning nonsense words until the tears abated. Her soggy, trembling smile broke his heart. Jon pressed a hard kiss to her brow, dragging the coverlet over them both. Warmth and comfort seeped into him, loosening the knots in his muscles, fraying the edges of his thoughts. Soon sleep overtook him.

 Jon dreamed he was lying naked on a beach. The sea was just as he imagined it would be: an endless expanse of living blue stretching to the horizon, a blue deep enough to drown in. Sunlight sank into his bones, lulling him into a soft, dreamy peace. The blood-warm water lapped, a slithering caress along his chest, warm then cool on his nipples, curling around his hard cock . . .

Jon snapped awake to find Daenerys’ mouth hovering over his naked chest, hands palming his shape through his trousers.

“Dany, what are you doing?” he rasped, fumbling through sleep-muddled senses.

The deep gold light seeping through the curtains told him it was afternoon. A fire smoldered in the grate, washing the room in a low orange glow. Daenerys filled his vision. Sleep tousled, with her full mouth smiling at him, it was devastatingly erotic, sending a wave of heat arrowing south. Silver hair fell like a living curtain, tickling his chest and belly. Her color was better, a soft flush pinked her cheeks, her eyes were a soft violet glow.

“What does it look like?” she said with an arched brow. The flutter of her breath against his skin made his nipples harden to tight buds, eager for her touch. Jon gulped, hands splayed on her back. Despite his conscience, his body refused to relinquish his grip on her.

“You’re injured . . .”

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked, pouting prettily. Her wicked hand squeezed him through his trousers. Even that frustratingly muted caress was enough to make him groan.

“The . . . the maester said to rest--” Jon’s head thumped back on the pillow as her tongue flicked his nipple. A shiver of pleasure rushed through him. Jon’s cock throbbed.

“He . . . he said shouting would hurt your ribs,” Jon gasped, sweat breaking out. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

“Confident in your skills as a lover, hmm?” Dany gave him that devastating smile again.

“I haven’t had any complaints,” Jon said with a pointed look, unable to completely smother his smile. Her laugh was a soft catch of breath as she leaned toward him to claim a kiss.

“Wait,” he said, framing her face between his hands. Gods, she was so beautiful. Jon’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. Dany watched the movement with intense, predatory interest.

“Last time I took to you to bed, you threw me out on my ear come morning. Should I expect the same?” Daenerys’ face hardened into a scowl and she struggled against his grip.

“Threw you on your ear? You were my hostage then--”

“And you were planning on marrying Robb.”

“Yes,” she said, defiant, “to gain the North. I didn’t relish the thought of it. But that doesn’t matter now, Stark rode south alongside us.”

“Aye,” Jon said, a knot of tension in his belly at last dissolving. He petted her wild hair to soothe her.

“Threw you out on your ear,” she muttered, scowling at him. Jon smirked, breathing a kiss on her brow. Jon leaned close, nuzzling her nose with his own.

“So we understand each other. You’ll be mine? And I’ll be yours?” he asked, his voice soft and serious. Violet eyes brimmed with emotion. The words seemed to hang in the thick air, in agony for her answer.

“Yes,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his. A strong wave of emotion washed through him, joy and relief and lust all wrapped into one.

Jon sank his fingers into her hair, deepening the kiss with a tilt of his chin. Gods, he loved the fire that existed between them, a soft, sizzling warmth when they were alone then raging into a bonfire when he bedded her. Jon lost himself in exploring the corners of her mouth, lips and tongue moving in unhurried languor. Mm, she tasted like honey and cinnamon. Soft clouds of her scent wafted over him, rose oil, sweat, warm female musk and faintest tang of blood.

Dany’s clever hands smoothed over his chest, scraping down his belly with a hint of nail. Jon uttered a low growl. Arousal surged through him. Jon nipped her bottom lip, arching his hips toward her. Her soft whimpers and subtle undulations in his arms drove him mad. The primitive refrain of _mine, mine, mine_ yammered in his head. Another distant thought shouted ‘ _Careful!’_ Jon surged up to his knees, panting.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his voice hoarse. Daenerys’ red, kiss-bruised lips curved in a smile.

“What do you suggest?” she asked with an arched brow. Jon raked a hand through hair, dragging in a calming breath through his nose. The white linen bandages glared at him. After a moment’s thought, he heaved a sigh.

“I’m not sure how it will work. Any way we twist could hurt your leg.”

“I’m fine, really. Come here,” she said, tugging at the loose ends of his jerkin. Jon bent and took a lingering kiss.

“I have a better idea.”

Jon shrugged out of his jerkin and squirmed beneath the coverlet to settle between Dany’s legs. He salivated in anticipation, eager for the taste of her. Thighs spread wide, Jon peeled off her smallclothes and rucked up her shift. Already he could smell her musk.

“You smell so _good_ ,” Jon said, nuzzling her thigh. Daenerys shoved the coverlet back.

“Jon, wait.” He stilled. Flushed with pupils wide and dark, she seemed eager enough to continue. She chewed on her lower lip, toying with his hair.

“Maybe I could use my mouth on you . . . at the same time?”

Jon gulped, intolerably aroused by her quiet words and the images brought to mind. He nodded, struck mute. Jon twisted out of his boots, trousers, and smallclothes. His cock rose red and hard, tipped up toward his belly. Daenerys rose on her elbows to wiggle out of her shift. Jon stopped her.

“That’s for me to do,” he said.

Braced over her, he bunched the soft silk in his hands with care, drawing out the pleasure of revealing her naked body. Just as gorgeous as he remembered. _Mine_. The bandages around her thigh and beneath her breasts lit a fierce tenderness in him, rivaled only by an equally fierce rage against those who hurt her. Jon wanted to shower her with kisses, cherish every wounded part. Jon wanted to lock her in this room and never let her out. Daenerys interrupted his thoughts by grasping his cock, pumping him from root to tip. Jon blew out a breath between his teeth, wracked by a pleasurable shudder.

“Impatient wench,” he said, teasing.

It took some fumbling to settle over her. Jon hovered, braced on the mattress, his knees resting against the headboard. Peeking between their bodies, his heart thundered at the sight of his cock poised over Dany’s mouth. He was struck by equally potent feelings of arousal and vulnerability.

“Are you all right?” he rasped, nuzzling her mound with his nose. Her musky smell made his mouth water.

“Oh yes,” Daenerys said.

All thought evaporated when she took his cock into her mouth. Hot, wet pleasure wracked him. The sinuous stroke of her tongue made him see stars. Growling, Jon set to his task. The angle allowed him full access to her pearl, and his fingers were free to pet and tease and thrust. Her first release was sharp and shocking. Daenerys cried out, the sound garbled around his cock. The position roused her too.

He quite liked this, a competition to see who could give the other greater pleasure. Jon groaned against her flesh, resisting the urge to thrust his hips into that sweet mouth sliding over him with a torturously slow pace. He redoubled his efforts, curling the fingers wedged inside her lovely cunt, kneading the spongy tissue with soft pressure.

Daenerys’ hips thrust against his grip, whimpering as she suckled his cock. The taste of her juices, the sweaty press of her skin, the perfect suction of her bobbing mouth—too much . . . gods, he was _close_! Jon went rigid, pleasure shattering him as he came in pulsing spurts. Another thrust of his fingers and she crested too, a wild, heaving shudder beneath him. Her juices coated his fingers, smeared on his face. Jon eased off, floundering on pleasure-slack limbs to draw her close.

“Gods,” he breathed.

“Mm-hmm,” Daenerys said, wiping saliva and come from her face. Drowsy and contented, Jon kissed her forehead.

“No pain?” he asked.

“None,” she said, pecking a kiss on his neck. Jon grinned, dragging his fingers through her hair. Daenerys dragged the coverlet over them both, nestling into him with a sigh.

“Sleep awhile,” Jon said, his voice husky.

Daenerys gave a sleepy murmur before subsiding into silence. Jon cherished the feel of her slackening muscles, the absolute trust of her sleeping against his heart. The depth and scope of his feelings were a sobering realization, doubly so given her promise to him. He would hold her close for as long as he could, and damn the consequences.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the delay, my lovelies! Another chapter in the works! Comments appreciated as always.


	15. Part XV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Unburnt

Part XV

 

“Seven fucking hells!” Daenerys said, hands clenched in fistfuls of sheet as the maester scraped and _scraped_ at her wound. The lint packed inside had decided to adhere to her raw flesh, thus the scraping. Logic was cold comfort compared the sweat beaded on her forehead or the red spots dancing at the tail of her eye.

“Curse all you wish, Your Grace. Just don’t hit me,” Maester Jaron said dryly. Daenerys snorted out a reluctant laugh, releasing a deep breath when the pain did not worsen. It was a steady throb, like a second heartbeat in her leg.

“I am fluent in three languages, with a smattering of others besides. The curse words are always easiest to remember,” she said.

“Grandmaester Yandel conducted a study evaluating various means of enduring pain. The study found that the subjects allowed to swear were able to endure a painful wound dressing longer than those who could not,” Maester Jaron said. One particular flourish of his scalpel sent a jolt of pain down her leg. Daenerys grunted, quelling the impulse to twitch away.  

“What an odd thing to test,” she spat the words through her teeth. The maester shrugged, his chain chiming in soft counterpoint.

“Maesters are plagued with an insatiable curiosity. We are called the knights of the mind, and fight battles against ignorance, prejudice, and lies.” Mercifully, he set scalpel aside, irrigating the wound with a syringe of warm water mixed with salt. Daenerys relaxed. That only caused a faint sting. There was a smooth deftness to how he worked, the grace of long practice.

“A noble calling,” Daenerys said, with some dryness. Despite the professed desire to disseminate knowledge, no woman was allowed to study at the Citadel no matter how highborn.

Satisfied with his work, Maester Jaron tucked a thin ribbon of linen soaked in honey into the wound, then wound her leg with a thicker layer of dry linen. Tying it off with a flourish, he patted her hand.  

“That should do it. The flesh is healing nicely.”

Daenerys swung out of bed and rose carefully as the maester’s assistant nestled his supplies into a wide basket. A testing step found only a twinge of pain in her leg. Refreshed from a day spent abed with sleep and Jon’s cautious loving, Daenerys now brimmed with energy. Since dawn, her small council had been in and out of the lord’s room with documents, raven scrolls, questions. A productive morning of strategizing, logistics and ruling on any grievances amongst the men passed until the maester’s soft rap on the door.

The small council agreed with her to resume their march toward Casterly Rock in the late evening hours, to throw off any spies or ambushes awaiting them. Raven scrolls were sent to the captains and commanders to coordinate the men. Grey Worm’s latest raven said the hills surrounding Casterly Rock were bristling with ‘worm-soldiers’ as he called them. Deserters and brigands who happened upon any passerby. The Unsullied, focused on breaking the siege, were spread too thin to patrol.

With Missandei’s help, Daenerys washed and dressed in riding leathers. Trousers and boots made her feel strong and capable. She pinned her cloak with her dragon brooch and chain, adding bangles of white and yellow gold around her wrists. Daenerys shoved open the doors, Storm-Son and an Unsullied lieutenant called Red Flea falling in step behind her. Storm-Son had nominated Red Flea to assume command of Golden Tooth’s garrison once the army moved out. He and a Dothraki commander Chommo would man the garrison.

“You look well, my Queen,” Storm-Son said, with his stone-like smile.

“Much better,” she said.

“Shall I wake the Queensguard, Your Grace?” Missandei asked. Daenerys shook her head.

“Both Sers Jorah and Barristan have earned their rest. Let them sleep,” she said. The long hallways in Golden Tooth did not prove difficult for her leg.

Stairs were more painful, but Daenerys hid her grimace with a smile as she swept down the wide stone steps to the great hall. Men and women stopped their work to watch her approach. Unlike Riverrun’s strict order, Golden Tooth teemed with people. Soldiers, knights, Dothraki, Unsullied, not to mention the cooks, servants, grooms, farriers, armorers, launderers, healers and camp women milled about. From the tail of her eye, she spied Tyrion flirting with a particularly pretty laundress, his expression relaxed. Storm-Son pounded the butt of his long spear on ground and bellowed: “Daenerys Stormborn!”

Daenerys scanned the crowd, smiling and nodding to a scattered few. Her small council fell in step behind her as she toured Golden Tooth, Tyrion included. The sturdy castle had sustained little damage in the battle: only the shattered gates were a testament to their vanquishing. True to form, the Unsullied had erected defensible gates of stacked crates, barbed with spear points on the outside. Daenerys breathed deep of the fresh air in the bailey, ripe with scents of baking bread, woodsmoke, manure, and the faint acrid tang of a forge’s quenching bucket.

The air was cold, the sky thinly overcast. While there were no flurries yet, the air tasted of snow. They were running out of time. Autumn would end soon, with winter nipping at its heels in hungry white bites. She closed her eyes, seeking the presence of her children. All three of them felt the soft brush of her thoughts and their surge of primitive joy brought tears to her eyes. They gave her the image of flying, of return.

The northerners were clustered in the bailey, a bulwark of dark leather and round shields bearing the Stark direwolf. Each offered a cordial nod or smile, but she did not see her northerner among them.

“Where is Ser Snow?” she asked. The stocky dark-haired Ser Talhart gave a jerky bow, ill-at-ease.

“He took his mount for a ride, Your Grace. His wolf went with him,” he said, tugging his short dark beard. Daenerys nodded.

The press of his sleepy kiss on her lips had woken her before dawn. After a day of drowsing together in bed, with him there to kiss and fuck and talk to, she missed him. Fit consort or not, Jon Snow was _hers_ , and damn the consequences. There was comfort, and a sort of peace in settling on such a decision.

“How do your men fare, Ser?” she asked.

“Well, Your Grace. It does a man good to make Lannisters bleed—no offense meant to present company,” Ser Talhart said.

“None taken, Ser. I will say the view of the Sunset Sea from Casterly Rock is spectacular. It will my pleasure to show you,” Tyrion replied with a smirk.

“When do we march, Your Grace?” Ser Talhart asked.

“As soon as the injured men are able. Then we march for the Rock with all haste,” she said.

Next Daenerys toured the barracks, which Maester Jaron and the healers had transformed into a healing house. It was a habit of hers to visit the injured men, thank them for their service, offer a silver stag or a token. The air was thick with smell of old blood, the sharp tang of boiled wine, and the dense, pungent scent of dirty bodies and pain. Daenerys wove through the cots, speaking gentle words. Each set of wide eyes looked to her, for inspiration, for succor. _My people. All of them._

“You must cut my braid, khaleesi,” Ifakki insisted, her broken leg splinted. Her dark almond eyes burned with shame. The female riders among the Dothraki were few, usually raised by riders without sons. Ifakki, she knew from Bakhaqqo, was an artist with her bow. At a dead gallop she could shoot the wings from a fly, or so she boasted.

“No,” Daenerys said in Dothraki, “you were not defeated in single combat. My army won the day, and the castle. It is victory, not defeat, Ifakki.”

“I . . . I cannot ride,” she whispered, glaring at her splinted leg. If her _arakh_ had been within arm’s reach, Daenerys was sure she’d have hacked the offending limb off herself.

“Then you will do as the healers say until you are well,” Daenerys said firmly, “was I shamed when an arrow wounded me?”

“No khaleesi!” Ifakki said in horror.

“Then you will do as I did and heal,” Daenerys said, patting her shoulder.

“As you say, khaleesi.” There was a sullen resignation to her tone, but a promise from a dothrakaan, once extracted, was rarely reneged on. She had just finished at the last cot with Talen, a young northman in Jon’s company, wounded in the hip by a spear, when she heard it. A low roar rolled through like a growl of thunder.

“Drogon!” she said.

Daenerys broke into a fast walk—her leg would not allow anything faster. A thud and ripple of shouts announced his landing. Flanked by her small council, she ducked out of the garrison and clattered down a flight of stairs to reach the bailey. Drogon perched on the rampart, looking like death incarnate: a great, muscular black death wreathed in smoke and emanating the promise of hellfire. Daenerys called his name and that great horned head swung toward her as she climbed the walled inner stair. In the sun at the peak of the rampart, she faced him. Drogon’s low hum made her chest vibrate.

“My love,” she said, pressing her forehead against Drogon’s snout. Drogon made a low clicking sound, dragon love-sounds. Through their bond, Drogon scented the blood on her, and wished to burn and rip at those who wounded her.         

Daenerys paused at the sight of the saddle—one side darkly stained with her blood. _I must be smarter, more careful_ , she swore to herself. Only a mortal queen, she could be killed in battle if caught unawares. Disaster and death would follow if her children were left wild _._

_I need a second_. Tyrion and her small council had discussed succession at length since her landing, to no avail. Though Ser Barristan Selmy could easily lead her Unsullied—perhaps even the Dothraki since he’d proven himself in battle—he could not control her dragons. No one could. None but her. If Daenerys died, then her children must follow her in death unless she found a suitable second. It was a grim, heart-rending thought. Lost in her musings, Daenerys scratched the loose scale beneath Drogon’s jaw, embraced by his heat and smoke.  

“ _Jelmāzmo,”_ Storm-Son said. Daenerys swiveled, realizing she stood poised to mount her dragon. The urge to fly was in her bones. Another thought said she wanted to protect Jon on his solitary ride. Her small council stood clustered at the mouth of the stairs, watching Drogon warily.

“I will not break my word,” she said firmly, though she had considered jumping the saddle and flying off. Rhaegal and Viserion circled, beckoning her with chittering cries. Daenerys unbuckled the girths for the saddle. It slid from his back to land with a thud on the rampart.

“ _S_ _ōve_ _s_ _,_ darling,” she said, gently nudging Drogon’s horned head. A sharp spike of anger arched from Drogon, along the jumbled image of snatching her and flying away. The dragon sprang.

“ _Daenerys_!” Jon’s voice was sharp with fear. At the same moment, Daenerys shouted: “Storm-Son!”

The commander had the reflexes of a cat. He lunged close in one smooth move and yanked her beneath him on the stair. Drogon shrieked in rage. The wind of his wings buffeted in sharp bursts. With a snarl, Drogon reared his neck back, black fire gleamed at the base of his fanged yawning mouth.

“ _No_!” Daenerys stumbled free from Storm-Son’s grip, throwing her body between her guards and Drogon. The fire washed over her in a blistering gust. Her clothing burned quick as thought. Daenerys staggered through the flames and yanked the mental leash between them. Awash in red rage, it was as if trying to shout through a storm, her voice lost in noise.

“Stop! Stop this!” she shouted. Drogon’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click. Lips quivering, Drogon uttered an ear-splitting roar. Daenerys clapped her hands over ears to mute the sound. Drogon rose in the sky, wheeling west. Rhaegal and Viserion did not follow, instead settling in the crags north of the castle. Panting, Daenerys turned toward the stair.

“Is everyone all right?” she asked, swiping soot from her face. One by one, her small council voiced their wellbeing. A scrum of movement on the stair and Jon shouldered his way to the rampart.

“Seven hells!” Jon said, voice sharp. There was awe in his flashing sable eyes, along with the fear. From his stride, she saw the intent to embrace her. He faltered, checking the impulse and she bit back a pang of disappointment. Instead he shrugged out of his cloak and dropped it on her naked shoulders. The heavy thump of cloth and fur was reassuring against the chill.

Tyrion gave an abbreviated account. Jon raked a hand through his disheveled hair.

“Gods. He could have killed you,” he said, gaze flicking to the sky.

“Drogon would never hurt me, Ser Snow. He is my child.”

“A several ton child who can spit fire!” Jon said, warming up to his scolding. Daenerys narrowed her eyes at him.

“We will discuss this later,” she said. Jon bit back his choler, even mustering a smirk for her at the leaden, awkward silence that followed. Daenerys shook her wrists to cool the hot gold of her bracelets, ducking from the grip of her now-swinging chain with ginger fingers. The bits of her tunic and cloak that clung to her back fell in singed scraps. Even her boots had gone up in smoke.

“Those were my favorite boots,” she said. As always, neither skin nor hair were so much as singed.

Breaking the stillness, Storm-Son knelt in fashion of Essosi slaves at her feet, offering his sword in cupped hands lifted over his bowed head.

“I am in your debt, Daenerys Stormborn. I owe you my life, _”_ Storm-Son said in Valyrian.

“Rise, Commander. You protected me, I protected you. There is no debt. Your life is your own,” she said in Common. Storm-Son lifted black eyes to meet hers, swimming with emotion. He stood to his feet.

“I serve you until I die,” he said with his usual sparse wording, voice thick. Touched by his devotion, Daenerys stepped close and smoothed back the hair that had fallen loose from its tie.

“I am honored by your loyalty,” she said. Storm-Son composed himself, donning his helm and sheathing his sword with a crisp snap.

Her Hand’s furtive eyes watching the skies for a black shadow, though she noted his hands were steady braced on the rampart’s crenellation. This was the first he and Jon had seen her title ‘Unburnt’ firsthand.

“It is a lucky thing you sensed his intention, Your Grace. Either Drogon would have carried you off or we’d be christening another Unsullied commander,” he said.

“Yes, we were lucky today. I must find the time for my dragons. It is my neglect that makes them act this way. Drogon wished to protect me.” Daenerys heaved a sigh, feeling drained.

“Spin your tales, Master of Whispers. Tell the men what you must.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Tyrion said.

“Come, Your Grace. Let’s get you washed up,” Missandei said.

 

Jon dogged their steps on the arduous journey back to her rooms. The crowds had parted, a sea of wondering faces as she threaded through, naked and sooty. Jon’s silence was a potent weapon, looming behind them. A northern trick, she thought, to stew in the quiet. Viserys had been bluster and blows, Drogo settled arguments by riding off with his men. She hadn’t known Daario long enough to argue over anything.

“Ser Snow, the queen must bathe--”

“I’ll wait here,” he said, taking a post beside Red Flea at the door. Missandei sent a runner scurrying off to fetch the maester. The bandage had met the same fate as her clothes.

Lord Lefford’s copper bath was a narrower affair than she was used to, but the water gave off soft tendrils of steam. Despite being baptized with fire, the hot water felt blissful. Another pair of her maids bustled about, one laid a fire, another finished tucking in fresh linens on the bed, another set aside a carafe of watered wine and a plate of bread and cheese on the sideboard.

As Missandei’s experienced hands helped her wash and comb and oil and primp, Daenerys wondered just what scolding words Jon had brewing. One of the maester’s assistants replaced the bandage with trembling hands, awed eyes flickering over her. Word had spread, she thought with a wry smile.

“Shall I send in Ser Snow?” Missandei asked. Daenerys settled on the square wooden chair by the fire, stretching out her wounded leg with a wince.

“Yes. He’s liable to burst if we leave him stewing much longer,” she said. The younger girl giggled, smoothing the front of her dress.

“Ring if you need anything,” Missandei said, gesturing to the bell beside the bed.

“Thank you, Missandei.”

Jon’s dark frame shouldered through the door. The expression he wore was unreadable, sable eyes crackling with emotion. Daenerys staggered to her feet.

“Jon, before you scold me, remember that I really am fine--” Jon closed the distance between them in brisk strides, yanking her into a tight embrace. Pressed tight against his thundering heart, Daenerys felt the tension seep from him. Reflexive, she wrapped her arms around him, hands splayed on the broad muscles of his back. The masculine spice and heat of him both soothed and roused her.

“I don’t understand how you can be so flippant about this,” he said, choked, fingers combing her hair.

“They’re my children. From the moment they hatched, I knew their fire could not harm me,” Daenerys said, her voice slightly muffled against his shoulder. Mm, contentment seeped into her bones while in his arms.

“From what Tyrion said, Drogon disobeyed you,” Jon said. She felt a pang, remembering the child’s sad charred bones.

“That has happened before too.”

Jon made a frustrated sound low in his throat.  

“I’m never leaving you again. Every time I let you out of my sight, trouble finds you.” Daenerys snorted, resting her forehead against his chest. It shouldn’t please her so much that he wanted to stick so close to her. _Mine. You’re mine, Jon Snow._

“Trouble has always found me. Perhaps I was born under an unlucky star,” she said, striving for lightness. Jon peeled back far enough to scowl down his nose at her.

“A _dragon_ engulfed you in fire, and there’s not a mark on you.” Daenerys laughed.

“Good point.” She watched a decision harden in his gaze.

Jon swept her up in his arms, ignoring her startled squawk.       

“What are you--?” she said.

“The only place you’re safe is right here,” Jon said, laying her gently on the newly turned sheets. Daenerys giggled, touched by the sentiment. The faint perfume of sweet-smelling herbs her ladies washed with wafted in a soft cloud from the linens. Daenerys sank back into the soft embrace of the wool-stuffed mattress and pillows fighting the wave of weariness that washed over her.

“I plan on keeping you here for quite a while,” Jon said. Daenerys bit her lip, fighting arousal at the firm promise in his words.

“Or will _I_ keep _you_ here, Ser?” she said with a teasing smile.

Jon yanked off his boots and shucking his jerkin in smooth businesslike movements. Daenerys admired the play of ridged muscle on his chest and belly beneath smooth, pale skin marred here and there by slashing scars. Sparse black hair curled around his peaked nipples. Warmth settled between her thighs, arousal kindling. Gods, he was beautiful. Jon’s sable eyes wandered over her, as intimate as a touch.

Daenerys swung toward the edge of the bed. Her fingers curled in the laces of his trousers and yanked him to her. A low growl answered her. Deft, she untied the laces, never breaking his hot gaze. Jon shoved down his trousers and stepped toward her. His hard cock hung heavy before him from the springy mat of black pubic hair. Her mouth watered, remembering the taste of him, the hot slide of his cock in her mouth, the sharp, salty taste of his issue.  

Jon loomed over the bed, hands braced on either side of her. He had the look of a large cat, sleek, muscled and graceful poised over her.

“My Jon,” she said, laying claim to him even as he took her mouth in a tender kiss. His lips were dry, soft; his beard was a delicate rasp on her face. Her mouth slanted over his, deepening the kiss with sinuous drag of her tongue. Jon hummed as she twined her arms around his neck.

He moved over her, pressing her down on the mattress. The press of his warm weight and his cock nudged against the damp silk of her smallclothes roused her. So hard. So hot. Jon did not break the kiss, instead suckling her lower lip and nipping gently. Daenerys whimpered, arching beneath him. Her hands slid over his body, proprietary and hungry. Her craving for him was a hunger, as necessary as breath.

Jon smelled of honest sweat and his own deeper masculine tang. Daenerys tugged at a handful of his curly hair. He broke the kiss to growl. The growl turned to a groan as she nipped and suckled along the exposed line of his throat. Together they twisted and struggled like snakes trying to shed their skins, shucking off her shift and smallclothes until she was a naked as he. Rolling him beneath her, she ground herself against his cock, the pleasure rising higher with each sinuous pass. Her release was a long, spasming shudder, Jon easing her through it was delicate kisses and slow pulses of his hips.

“Yes Dany. Gods, I love it when you come,” he said huskily, nuzzling her neck, tracing the line of her collarbone with his tongue. Languorous and pulsing, Daenerys squirmed in his grip. Her release had only whetted a deeper hunger.

“I’m quite fond of it as well,” she said, smiling.

Daenerys rose on her elbows, admiring the beauty of Jon Snow, knight and warrior, grim and humorless, sprawled naked and smiling beneath her. Her conquest. How many people had ever seen him smile like that? Daenerys was possessed by the desire to map every inch of him, a conqueror surveying her realm and plundering its sweet secrets. She wanted to give him supreme pleasure, she wanted to hear him laugh, she wanted him at her side always. Jon’s fingers wormed between them to tease her pearl. Daenerys gasped, arching into the touch.

“So slick and sweet,” he said, his voice husky with arousal. Daenerys grabbed his questing hand, pinning the arm above his head.

“Not so fast, Ser,” she said. His expression was slack, eyes wide and so dark. He liked being pinned? Daenerys yanked his other arm up to pin alongside its twin, admiring his tautly muscled body prostrate beneath her. Daenerys bit her lip, checking the impulse to tickle the tufts of hair beneath arms.

“Dany,” he whispered, hips stuttering, his hot cock pulsing against her thigh.

“Hush,” she said, silencing him with a messy kiss.

One hand gripping his thick swordsman’s wrists, Daenerys sought to drive him mad with lust. She lavished his neck and jaw with open kisses as he whimpered, lashing his taut nipples with her tongue until he groaned. She smeared his lips with her juices, watching avidly as he sucked her dew from her fingers. Her breath came short and fast, heart pounding with arousal. With teasing thrusts of her hips, she kissed his cock with the wet folds of her cunt. Daenerys groaned, sparks of pleasure crackling at the edges of her vision. Sweat slicked their bodies as they ground together. Jon cried out, every muscle taut as he strained for more.

“Please, please, Dany, oh gods, please!” Jon cried.

“Yes, Jon. Come here to me,” she said, releasing him.

With startling strength, Jon surged up, flipping her beneath him and yanking her legs wide. There was pain in her leg, but it was outweighed by the pleasure of seeing her Jon so wrecked and beautiful above her. Jon took his time, petting the seam of her cunt with the blunt head of his cock, slick with her juices. Daenerys panted and struggled beneath him, craving more.

“Beg me,” he said, his voice a harsh rasp. Gods, the teasing press of his cock against her pearl made her see stars.

“Please,” Daenerys whispered, struggling against his gentle but implacable grip.

“Please what?”

“Please give me your cock. I need you inside me,” she whispered.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jon hissed, thrusting inside. Daenerys cried out, clutching him close as her release twisted through her, savage and intense. Jon snarled, setting a deep, pounding pace. If pain whispered along the edges of her consciousness, Daenerys was too lost in the tide of lust and pleasure to notice.

“Yes! Yes!” she cried, nearly shrieking as she came again, surging into a mindless, clenching madness. Jon howled as he came inside her, muscles and tendons straining. He collapsed atop her, sucking in ragged breaths against her neck.

Daenerys closed her eyes, needing a moment’s privacy. Every time she bedded him, even playfully, it twisted into something intense and soul-shattering. Jon Snow wormed his way deeper inside her heart with each unguarded smile, his integrity and concern, when he held her when she wept. It might destroy her when he left, but for now, he was hers. Jon lifted his head, worry creasing his brow.

“Did—Did I hurt you?”

“No, it was wonderful,” she said, kissing his nose. His handsome face relaxed and his nuzzled her throat. Jon rolled off her, giving her time to limp to the privy closet. Chilled, she hurried back to bed. Jon threw back the coverlet, tucking her into the curve of his body as she settled beside him. The press of naked skin was a pleasant shock.

“Let’s sleep awhile, love,” he said, around a yawn. Jon kissed her hair behind her ear before settling against her with a happy sigh. Daenerys twined her fingers with his, blissful and tired in his embrace.

She woke with a start to Missandei’s gentle shake. Sleep-frayed thoughts were slow to gather. What--?

“Your Grace?”

“What’s happened, Missandei?” she asked. Behind her, Jon made a low sound as he woke.

“Lord Tyrion wanted to know if you wished to signal the march?” Missandei asked, with a half-wary, half-interested look at Jon. Daenerys shook herself. Drogon and then the interlude with Jon had pushed the plan from her mind. A glance at the curtained window found the dying gold of sunset.

“Yes. Yes, we continue as scheduled. Give me a moment,” she said. Missandei nodded and left the room. Daenerys shifted to look at Jon.

“’Morning,” Jon said, tipping her chin toward his for a kiss. Daenerys hummed in pleasure, trying to gather her sleep-addled wits.

“Come, we should dress. Missandei will be back any minute with my armor.”

Jon nodded, sweeping off the coverlet and rolling out of bed. Daenerys admired his compact frame and shaggy, sleep-tousled hair. Jon stretched, joints popping and muscles quivering. Daenerys looked away, already fighting the impulse to drag him back to bed. 

“I’ll squire for you,” Jon said, staggering into smallclothes and trousers.

“You will?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and swathing herself in her dark blue dressing gown. Jon bent to one knee at her feet.

“Storm-Son isn’t the only one who wants to keep you safe,” he said, deadly serious. Touched, Daenerys framed his face between her hands.

“I’m honored by your devotion,” she said, sealing the words with a kiss.

When Missandei and a steward returned with her chest of armor, she said: “Ser Snow has offered to help me arm. Go and fetch his armor. We must leave with all haste.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Daenerys had always stood impatient and fidgeting as her attendants fitted her armor, but with Jon it was surprisingly pleasant. First the under-tunic, then the padded gambeson. 

“Why did you leave the castle this morning?” she asked. Jon patted her foot, guiding her injured leg into the padded trousers. The armorer’s solution was to add plate flaps to the leg restraints of her saddle to go along with the padding and mail-backed trousers. The poor man had wept into his beard when she toured the smithy yesterday. He took her injury as a personal failing.

“Flint took a couple arrows when we stormed the keep. I needed to put him through his paces to see if the wounds healed,” Jon said, pecking a kiss on her belly before he fastened the straps. Daenerys bit her lip to stifle a ticklish giggle.

“You went alone?” Jon shrugged in reply.

“Ghost was with me.”

Daenerys exhaled a frustrated breath, wincing as Jon tugged up the trousers. The pain was a sullen throb at the constriction.

“If I cannot--”

“Arms up!” Jon said with a grunt, guiding her breastplate over her head. Sliding her arms through the holes, she shrugged, settling the steel into place. Daenerys laid a hand on Jon’s wrist, stilling him. His sable eyes met hers, intent.

“If I cannot take foolish risks, then neither can you.”

Jon nodded.

“Point taken,” he said with a smirk. Servants bustled in and out, dousing the fire, packing the linens and sundry items into chests. What wealth was left in Golden Tooth, supplies, riches, horses, were loaded on the baggage train. Another passing servant threw open the curtains, treating the two of them to the spectacular golds and reds of sunset. One star winked in the velvet purple above. A clear, cold night. Perfect for a march.

“When you say you wish to stay with me, does that mean when I fly?” she said, half-teasing, looking beneath her arm to where Jon bent buckling the side fastenings. Jon’s scowl of concentration lightened as he chuckled.

“Unlike you, Your Grace, I can be burned,” Jon said.

The more she pondered the idea, the more it appealed to her. If her dragons took to Jon, maybe even allowing a rider . . . Excitement crackled inside.  

“The idea has merit. Think of it: Drogon let you take me when I was injured. That is something worth exploring. Imagine, Jon, if there were _two_ dragon riders. We would be unstoppable. I think Rhaegal would take to you. He’s the calmest of the three.”  Jon pondered her words. Fastening the last strap, he rose and laid his hands on her shoulders. His expression was his usual serious scowl, but the tenderness in his gaze was reserved for her alone.

“It could end the war. Save lives. I will try,” Jon said. Daenerys smiled. _My brave knight._

“Give me time to soothe Drogon and the others. Let us take Casterly Rock. Then we will try.”     

 

 


	16. Part XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casterly Rock

Part XVI

 

“The seat of Warden of the West, ancestral home of House Lannister, Casterly Rock!” Daenerys shouted into the wind. The pale red stone walls of the castle rose high above a scrubby plain, grafted into the natural mount. It’s gates—called the Lion’s Mouth—yawned open, awaiting her army in its final approach.

The march from Golden Tooth had been spent aloft with her children. She flew with them as the army traveled below, flew with them as they fed and as they played. Rhaegal and Viserion now wore saddles too, and Daenerys took turns riding each of them. Drogon became snappish and irritable if she rode too long on Rhaegal or Viserion, but both dragons took to a rider quite well. To herself, Daenerys admitted she preferred Drogon. Her bond with him had always been the deepest.

As she flew, Daenerys pondered which of her children would be best for Jon. Viserion was the smallest and swiftest. He was the best flyer, she thought, though temperamental. Rhaegal was the calmest, the most aloof. His fire burned the hottest, and the green dragon was the best hunter. _Much like Ghost._ That was enough to clinch it. Rhaegal would be a good mount for Jon.

Daenerys and her three dragons wheeled, keeping a keen eye out for ballistae, archers, or any other traps that lay in store. No doubt the garrison of Casterly Rock were exhausted from holding off her finest Unsullied for months, for as of yet they had found none. The worm-soldiers Grey Worm had mentioned were pathetic bands of deserters and brigands. Her experienced men were able to drive them off.  

Drogon’s scales kept her warm enough, especially in her armor, but she was grateful for the wool-lined gloves and thick scarves wound around her head beneath the helm. Daenerys watched her men march, like ants from this height. She was able to pick out her Queensguard at the head of the column. The Dothraki galloped around the slower-moving infantry like surging waves. It was a lovely sight to watch her army march toward this hard-won prize, the chaotic surge of her Dothraki, the ordered ranks of Unsullied, the careful trot of her Westerosi.    

Daenerys yanked the black scarf to hang in a loose drape against her throat. She reached in the satchel and chewed on a corner of hard cheese as she watched the land scroll beneath the steady beat of Drogon’s wings.

Peering down at the brown and black ants that made up her army, she searched for the slightly larger white speck. That meant Ghost, and Jon by extension. There! Near the head of the column, the white speck, and the flutter of a pale banner. Jon and his northmen.

“This must feel like home,” she said to herself, squinting at a slate grey sky, flurries dancing in the air.

A couple fat pigeons flitted nearby. Viserion snaked out his long neck to snap at one who wandered too close. At last, her men scaled the mount to the Lion’s Mouth.  

“Down there. Let us land and accept their surrender,” she said, with a tug on the mental leash. Drogon roared in response together with Rhaegal and Viserion. Like her, they were tired of waiting.

Drogon shortened the sweep of his wings, angling to a low dive toward the castle. Tyrion had been quick to quote her ancestor Visenya Targaryen in saying she thought the Rock would withstand dragonfire, had Loren the Last not met her ancestors—and his end—on the Field of Fire. It was a son of the west’s pride, but Daenerys appreciated the council.

“It is a good thing we do not have to put that to the test,” she said dryly, “Rhaegal, Viserion, you stay close aloft.”

 Thorin Payne had signaled his surrender as her company approached the castle. He was surely the man kneeling in the center of the bailey, along with his lieutenants. Black-armored Unsullied, swaggering Dothraki and grim knights ringed the bailey, watching her approach. Bloodriders watched from their mounts, her Queensguard gleamed in their black and gold armor.

Drogon slowed his descent, sweeping his wings wide. His claws crushed the lip of the crenellation as they landed with a clap of thunder. Daenerys unfastened the restraints and shrugged off the scarves. She slid down the side of Drogon’s neck, a twitch of shoulder allowing her thick cape to flutter in crimson folds behind her. Both for warmth and an effort to add size to her diminutive form, Daenerys could admit she quite liked the cape’s effect. A twinge of pain complained from her leg, but not enough to bother her overmuch.

A curt glance searched for Jon, finding him at the head of his men. He looked every inch the northman with his armor and white direwolf at his side. His stern expression was intent on the line of kneeling men.

“Daenerys _Jelmāzmo,_ ” Grey Worm said, banging his spear against his metal-rimmed shield in an Unsullied salute.

“Commander. It does me good to see you well,” Daenerys said with a thin smile. He looked thinner, a bulky dressing around his spear arm. His diligent raven scrolls had failed to mention a wound.

Daenerys turned toward the surrendering men. The effects of the long siege were evident. Payne had once been a heavyset man. The sagging skin of his jowls hung in ashen folds peppered with scraggling grey beard. Hollow flint grey eyes peeked from angular folds of skin. His lieutenant Alyn Harwyn to his right looked little better, his beard moth-eaten and cheeks gaunt. The other man, though younger, had the same greyish caste to his skin, scowling at her from beneath the tangled thatch of dark hair.   

“Castellan Payne,” she said, “you made the wise choice, and saved your men’s lives by surrendering to me.” She paused, eyes wandering over the forlorn keep. Not so much as a weed or blade of grass among the churned reddish earth. Her councilors had spared no detail in describing the conditions of a castle under siege. Ser Talhart of Jon’s company had been among the men who liberated the siege at Storm’s End during the Usurper’s rebellion. ‘Skeletons still in their funeral clothes’ in his words. _Poor wretches._   

“How many men are left in the keep? Why have they not come to surrender?” Tyrion said. Every iota of energy left in the shamed castellan burned in his baleful glare at her Lord Lannister.  

“ _Rot_ , you fucking worm! You’re not even worth the maggots in your father’s grave! You shame the Rock--” Anger flashed through her.

“ _Enough_ ,” she said, the small word amplified by Drogon’s warning growl. Payne broke off his diatribe as if choked.

“Answer my Hand’s question.”

A gust of wind howled through the bailey. The three kneeling men shivered. Both the men flanking Payne glanced nervously up at Drogon, who looked back with glowing amber-red eyes. The one on her left—Payne’s son, what was his name? Rick? No, _Chett_ —sat soaked with sweat in his threadbare tunic, despite the chill. Had there been plague in the castle? It was an uncomfortable thought.

“The men wish to see how we are treated,” Payne said.

“To what end? Even if the queen decided to burn you lot alive, what would stop her from cracking the keep open like an egg to do the same to them?” Tyrion said. Daenerys glanced sidelong at him. Payne had struck a nerve for Tyrion to be deliberately needling.

“A fool’s hope,” Payne said.   

“You will be treated well as my prisoners. Perhaps you can commiserate with Ser Kevan Lannister in your cells. Shame or no, you and your men will eat tonight, a dear luxury of late.”

Daenerys half-turned to issue orders for the search of the keep.

A burst of movement.

The flash of steel.

“ _No_!” Payne’s voice roared and cracked.

Chett’s brown eyes, wide with fear, brandishing a knife in a trembling hand. Every sword and spear swiveled toward the lad. Drogon let out an ear-splitting roar. Viserion and Rhaegal filled the sky with gouts of fire.

“Hold! _Hold_ , I said!” Daenerys shouted. Her head pounded with the effort of restraining Drogon, the leash _burning_ between them. Blood dripped from her nose. Every soul froze, Chett included. Daenerys spread her hands. Grey Worm and Storm-Son settled themselves by pinning the other two beneath the points of their spears. Ser Jorah was a breath away, naked sword held aloft.

“Chett, drop the knife. There is no path that does not end badly for you.” She kept her voice calm, even. There was no fear. Even if the boy chose to strike, his blow would not reach her. But if she could resolve it peacefully and show the huddled men in Casterly Rock, groomed to despise her, that she could be reasonable, merciful . . .

“What’s left for us? Groveling for your table scraps?” Chett shouted, his voice ragged and hoarse.

“Don’t be an idiot, Chett!” Payne said.

“There is _life_. There is food, shelter,” she said.

She disliked the fevered shine in his eyes. The grip on the knife, a spike of dark steel as long as her forearm, was now unnervingly steady. Drogon’s steady growl of warning raised the fine hairs on her arms. The tether was wound tight, _searing_.

“Or death and glory!”

“And who will sing songs for a fool who throws away his life? What glory is to be had in striking at an unarmed woman?”

“Chett!”

“A liar, a foreigner. . .” Was it just hope, or was there a quaver in his voice? A hint of uncertainty?     

“It was your liege lord who broke oaths. And I was born on Dragonstone, a stone’s throw from King’s Landing.” Wind whined through the bailey and it began snowing in earnest. Gritty snow made faint pinging sounds on her armor.

“Drop the knife,” Daenerys said, not breaking Chett’s gaze. She saw the decision harden in his eyes.

Chett lunged. Drogon beat the silver bite of Ser Jorah’s sword by a heartbeat. His long neck snaked out, snapping the lad in half. His limp corpse fell in a bloody heap. Payne struggled and howled as the Unsullied dragged him away, heaping curses as he went. Daenerys watched the boy’s blood mingle with the reddish earth in to a dark paste.

“Fool. Poor, stupid fool,” Daenerys said, eyes burning. A headache throbbed at her temples.

“Bring me the rest,” she said, with a weary gesture.

Unsullied threw open the doors of the keep. The oak door yawned, revealing an empty chamber. Putrid fumes creeping out like vapors from a sepulcher. An inarticulate sound of frustration burst from her. Daenerys stomped to where Payne sagged against his bonds in Grey Worm’s grip.

“Where are your _men_ , Castellan?” Daenerys said. Payne’s smile was a hideous thing of mossy, blood-reddened teeth.

“You’ll never find them. The mines beneath the Rock are older than your thrice-cursed dynasty, girl. Sleep well tonight, knowing those swords are waiting in the dark.” Something hot and red snarled in her chest. It was on her lips to order Drogon to burn him to a crisp. Instead, she leaned close.

“Sleep well tonight knowing your own son died for nothing.” she said. Her words hit their mark, he could not hide his flinch. Daenerys turned with a sweep of her cape.

Flanked by her Queensguard, small council, and Jon, she crossed the bailey and at last entered the keep of Casterly Rock. The ceiling soared overhead, a few Lannister banners hanging grey and forlorn near the rafters. It stank of old blood, rot and excrement. The rushes squelched beneath their boots. _This is my conquest? A decayed heap of stone?_ Rage pounded at her temples like a second heartbeat.

“Search every closet, every crevice, every cave. None of us sleep tonight until those men are found!” she snarled.

“How many men do we need to kill, khaleesi? It is not natural to dig like rats in the ground. It is known,” Rakharo said with a shudder. Kovarro and Aggo looked likewise pale beneath their ruddy, copper-toned skin. Deep caves ranked alongside crossing the poison water in terms of aversion for her Dothraki—even blood of her blood. Daenerys bit back soothing words. She was khaleesi! Her word should be enough!

“As many as you find, _Qoy Qoyi._ To think they used my offer of mercy to deceive me! Lord Hand, surely there are maps of the mines beneath the Rock?” Tyrion frowned at the great hall, green eyes clouded with old memories.

“Yes, Your Grace. Several, in fact. Payne does not realize it, but he could have as easily sentenced his men to a slow death. Without a map or an experienced guide, any man could get lost in the tunnels. They extend for almost a league straight down, and were expanded over centuries.”

“It was done out of desperation, not strategy. Gods, it makes my skin crawl at the thought of those men skittering around like rats in the dark. Had they surrendered, they would be eating porridge by a fire by now,” she said.

“Can we not seal off the mines from the castle? Starve them out? It wouldn’t take long. You saw Payne, he could barely stand himself,” Jon said. Daenerys arched a brow. It seemed uncharacteristic of him to suggest letting a group of men starve to death. _An almost Targaryen temper._

 “We could, but we could never be sure we sealed _all_ of the tunnels. As I said, they are extensive,” Tyrion said, gaze fixed. She followed his gaze.

The high table sat beneath a high window, a great, gold-chased chair in the center. The seat from which Tywin Lannister had sneered from. Daenerys scaled the short stair and braced her hands on the thick table, scarred from years of use.

“Ser Barristan, Aggo, Grey Worm, you and your men sweep the castle and settle the men. The rest of you, follow Lord Tyrion. We must find a solution for sealing off the tunnels.  As for the prisoners, I want the castellan’s cell in the bailey. Leave the boy’s body there overnight. Let him think on what he’s done and what it cost him.” Daenerys rapped her knuckles on the table for emphasis. Salutes and parting words were exchanged as the men dispersed. Daenerys nudged Tyrion’s shoulder.

“There will be time for you to sit there later, perhaps share bread and salt,” she said, groping for a lighter mood. Tyrion blinked at her.

“Your Grace?”

“Your name is Lannister, is it not? Casterly Rock is yours, by right. You will extend your hospitality to your queen?”

“Of—of course, Your Grace!” Tyrion said, his usual droll eloquence lost in startled sincerity. Daenerys found a weak smile.

“Da—Your Grace, how shall the men of the North serve you?” Jon asked.

Despite the grim situation, she bit back a grin at his near-slip. The words were cool, polite, but when she met his eye, there was a familiar crackle between them. _I can think of several ways you can serve me, Snow._ Daenerys blinked, an idea sparking to life.

“Is your wolf a keen tracker, Ser Snow?” She saw her idea take hold in Jon and Tyrion.

“Ghost is an excellent tracker,” Jon said with a grin.

 

Dawn broke in a sullen grey sky, weak beams of pink-tinged sunlight peeking over the horizon. Daenerys stood in the lord’s chamber on the balcony overlooking the Sunset Sea, letting the crash of the waves below and the faint cry of gulls wash over her. A cold wind smelling of brine buffeted her, blowing away the cobwebs of weariness. The sight of the sea calmed her. Its expanse reminded her how small she was compared to the majesty of nature.

True to her promise, she had not slept while the men searched the tunnels. There was plenty for her to oversee in settling the castle, securing the prisoners, settling her dragons. The mount the Rock was built upon had crevices enough for her dragons to settle comfortably.

Touring the storerooms of Casterly Rock with Tyrion was enlightening. Empty wine barrels creaking, a few scattered gold dragons and a heap of rotted silks had been the contents of seven storerooms. Jon, Ghost, and the northmen had ranged below ground with surprising dexterity. Jon told her it was because there was not a Winterfell man who had not been in the crypts beneath the castle at least once. As of the last watch-ring on her candle, they had rounded up fifty men. Most were too weak to fight back. A runner had just told her that the search was ongoing.   

“My father before he . . . when he was alive, he told me the mine beneath the Rock had not produced gold in thirty years. I didn’t believe him,” Tyrion said, grey-faced as he sipped wine.

“The Crown is deep in debt to the Iron Bank, yes?” she said. Daenerys stood mesmerized by the surge and crash of the waves below.

“Yes. I would suggest that we’ve backed them into a corner with the gold from Highgarden, but . . .”

“But the Targaryen pretender has bought sellsword contracts, so we cannot be sure if he has the Iron Bank’s backing as well.”

“The Iron Bank always returns their investment, either from you or funding your enemies.” Snorting, she half-turned toward her Hand.

“An adage almost as old as ‘Lannisters always pay their debts,’” Daenerys said. Tyrion toasted her with his fluted glass.

“Both hold true. A good thing to remember with my dear sister.” Daenerys let the comment slide.

“Have ravens sent to Asha Greyjoy, Robb Stark and Lady Melisandre. I want status reports and tallies of each of our garrisons. We must settle in for winter.”

“To that score, I’ve had several plans as to how we spend our winter,” Tyrion said. Daenerys grinned.

“I’d love to hear them.”       

It was midday before she felt in true control of the castle. Payne—shivering with exposure—admitted the garrison had been whittled down to eighty men, seventy of which had been found in their searches of the tunnels. Still in her armor, Daenerys called a small council meeting in the great hall. Her vision blurred at the edges, her mind felt wrapped in thick cotton, dulling sounds and muting sensations. Tyrion pinned a ringed finger on the map spread on the high table. The weathered parchment revealed a maze of tunnels, unfurled like the roots of a tree beneath the Rock.

“This cluster of rooms along the main mining shaft is where Snow’s wolf found the bulk of the men.”

“What shall his reward be, Ser Snow? A haunch of venison? A golden collar?” Daenerys said, earning a smattering of quiet chuckles. The direwolf sat at his master’s feet, watching the proceedings with knowing red eyes. Jon gave a tired smile, absently patted the wolf’s head.

“I think he’d like a side of venison. Cooked or raw, he isn’t picky,” he said.

“Now, with regards to the tunnels,” Tyrion said, with the air of interrupted lecturer, “I was able to cause controlled cave-ins on the most likely routes.”

“Controlled cave-ins? How was such a thing accomplished, Lord Tyrion?” Ser Barristan asked, with an uneasy glance at the rafters. It was not a settling thought to imagine the castle shifting beneath them. At this interruption, Tyrion exhaled a breath through his nostrils.

“In much the same way the tunnels were built: by hand. A large Dothraki fellow—Hrazzo, I think—pulled a line tied to one of the load-bearing beams from outside the room we wished to collapse. Enough rubble shifted to block the entrance.”

“Do you think that is enough?” Daenerys asked.

“Enough to hold off a handful of poorly armed men who have just endured a months-long siege? I would say Your Grace is quite safe.”

“My concern was not that Payne’s men would somehow traverse the castle and assassinate me,” Daenerys said with some irritation. The lack of sleep had made their tempers short.

“Rather, it is a waste of men and resources to post guards at the tunnel entrances as we prepare for winter.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Tyrion had the grace to look abashed. Clearing his throat, he tapped the map.

“I think it would be prudent to post a handful of guards for the next week or so. As an extra precaution.”

“I agree, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah said.

“I as well, khaleesi,” Rakharo said. Daenerys nodded, dragging in her first deep breath since landing in the bailey.

“See that it’s done,” Daenerys said, “and allow me to thank each of you for your bravery and diligence. I’ll address the men before we feast tomorrow night, but to you, my small council, remember we have won a great victory. The seat of the West! Come spring, King’s Landing and victory!” Her small council applauded in reply.

“I will seek my bed. Ser Snow, would you squire for me?” she asked. A blatant invitation to her rooms in front of her small council. _Let them challenge me. Let them try._ Jon usually inscrutable face revealed notes of surprised pleasure.

“Of course, Your Grace. It would be my honor,” Jon said.

“Good. Dismissed,” she said to her council. If there were bemused or disapproving looks, she deigned not to acknowledge them.

“Come, Ser,” she said, with a grin. Jon’s slow smile lit up his face.  

 

  


	17. Part XVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settling in to Casterly Rock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be out of town this weekend, so you get your chapter a little early! Enjoy! Warning: fluff ahead.

Part XVII

 

“What do you think?” Daenerys asked, draped naked across his chest. Amber patterns moved lazily beyond his closed eyes. Jon batted away her ticklish caress along a scar on his right side. That one was a Lannister spear during the Battle of Oxcross. Limbs loose and relaxed, floating on the surface of sleep, Jon had only heard the lilt of her voice.

“Hmm?” Jon said, lifted one eyelid. He was struck again by a vision of Daenerys’ silver hair gilded by firelight. _Mine._ A furrow deepened between her thick dark blond brows as violet eyes regarded him with bemused annoyance.

Jon let his eyelid drop closed, shifting to a more comfortable position on the down mattress. Tywin Lannister’s barge of a bed was large enough to fit seven people, with richly carved bedposts as thick as his arm, canopied in crimson cloth trimmed with gold. Unlike Golden Tooth, the opulence of Casterly Rock was measured not in volume of gold leaf, but in the quality of materials. Lumber and pearls from Braavos, lace and glasswork from Myr, tapestries from Qohor.   

“Did I catch you dozing, Ser?” That imperious tone, laced with a hint of steel.

“No, no. I was listening,” he said, fighting a smile. Daenerys squirmed, slithering atop him. Jon grunted, moving to dodge a knee in the groin, but continued the game of feigning sleep.

“Were you? What did I say?” she said. Mm, Jon shivered a little at that husky whisper, the puff of her breath on the shell of his ear. Even worn out as he was, his cock gave a twitch of interest. _Can’t blame him, with that sweet wet cunt giving him a little kiss . . ._

“You were asking what I thought about spending tomorrow abed with you. Plenty of rest before the feasting. I think it’s an excellent idea.” Nestled so close, Jon felt the gust of air as she snorted with smothered laughter.

“Oh was that what I said?” She nuzzled his cheek. Jon smoothed his rough hands down the small of her back, cupping her arse in a possessive gesture.

“Aye,” he said.

“We’ve earned a little rest, haven’t we?” Daenerys said, delicately tracing the shell of his ear with her tongue. The wet caress of her little pink tongue made him shiver. Jon hummed, arching his hips against the soft skin of her thigh. The soft slide made his cock harden and throb. A small part of him complained it shouldn’t be so easy for her to rouse him. A press of naked skin, a glancing kiss and he was hungry for more. Blindly, Jon kissed the tender underside of her chin.

“Aye,” Jon rasped, fingers tangling in her silky hair.

Tugging her head down, Jon kissed her. A sleepy tangling of tongues and the slow, building burn of pleasure. Daenerys squirmed in his grip.

“Jon, wait--” He growled, smothering the words with another kiss. The words melted to a whimper as he plucked at her taut nipple with gentle fingers.

“Jon, love . . .”  the casual endearment enflamed him. Jon dragged her lower lip into his mouth and bit gently. Her fingers sank into his hair, kneading his scalp. She yanked hard.

“Ow,” he said, though even that prickle of pain was rousing coming from her. _She has you wrapped around her littlest finger, lad._ Daenerys petted his head in apology, though she looked no less affected than he. Pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips parted . . .

“Before we’re distracted again, I want to hear what you think. About Tyrion’s plan.”

“Tyrion’s plan?” he said. Daenerys narrowed her eyes at him in mock irritation.

“He suggested sending a group with Asha Greyjoy up the Mander to King’s Landing. To infiltrate the city and sabotage.”

Jon heaved a sigh, arousal slackening. He patted her arse, urging her off of him. Jon rose to sit cross-legged across from her, shoving his hair from his eyes. Though frustrated they weren’t fucking, Jon loved that she sought his opinion.

“It’s smart. If the selected men could get in unnoticed. Westerosi preferably, to not arouse suspicion.” Daenerys stretched out on her side, head resting on her cupped palm. Jon tried not to remember it was the same posture in which she invited him to bed at Riverrun.

“Yes, Unsullied and Dothraki would stick out in King’s Landing.” Daenerys said, biting her lip. Jon blinked, the pence dropping. He stiffened, fists curling. 

“You’re ordering me to go?” Daenerys made a distressed sound, rising to sit beside him.

“I’m _asking_. Is it a good plan?” she said, grabbing his hand. Jon threaded her fingers with his, dragging in a deep breath through his nostrils.

“Yes, it is. Infiltrate, destabilize, sabotage. All without them noticing or losing scores of men.”

“My options with seasoned, trusted Westerosi soldiers are limited. It makes sense. You and your men are Westerosi, with accents faint enough not to cause comment. And none of the goldcloaks or Lannisters would recognize you,” she said, face pained. Jon blew out a deep breath.

Taking a step back, Jon recognized the merit of the plan. It could work. He and his men could go, though it would be best to find a native of the city for a guide. The lash of anger had been at being sent away, dismissed as unwanted. _A bastard’s sore spot,_ he thought with some wryness.

“Did Tyrion also _suggest_ I go?” Jon said, nerves sharp with anger and wanting to put it somewhere.

“Yes,” Daenerys said without missing a beat, “I told him where he could put his opinion of who I choose.” Jon tightened his grip on her hand.

“You’re mine,” he said, hushed and fierce. Tragedy loomed on the road before them, but Jon didn’t care. She was worth it. Daenerys kissed the back of his hand.

“And you’re mine,” she echoed. Jon touched his forehead to hers. Moments passed in sweet silence, broken only by the distant crash of the ocean and the occasional crackle from the fire.

“I will go,” he said, breathing a kiss on her forehead. There was an echo of his own turmoil in her face, violet eyes swimming with tears. They did not fall; she was too strong for that.

“My brave knight,” she whispered.

“When shall we leave?”

“Asha sent a raven. She is on her way from Dragonstone. She goes first to the Iron Islands to resupply with the right men, ships, and skiffs. A month, at least. We have time.” Jon found a smile and gave her a lingering kiss.

“Then let’s spend it wisely,” he said, prowling over to her.        

When he woke, it was to the blaze of late afternoon sunlight and the soft murmur of Missandei’s voice. Jon sat up straight in bed, clutching the coverlet over his bits. Daenerys watched him from the chair by the fire biting back a smile. Missandei blinked at him, comb poised over Daenerys’ head.

“Thank you, Missandei. I will do the rest,” Daenerys said.

“Your Grace, Ser,” she said with a short curtsey before she took her leave. Jon rose, groping for his smallclothes.

“Did you two have a laugh while I was asleep?” he said, scowling as he yanked up his trousers. Daenerys arched a brow. A jerk of chin made her hair ripple over her shoulder like silver silk.

“Don’t be such a grouse. I made sure you were decently covered. Though I think Missandei likes the look of you.” Jon scrubbed his face with his hands, shaking off sleep. He rifled for his discarded clothes on the sideboard.

“I had clothes brought for you. For the feast,” she said, rising with a shimmer of her silver dressing gown and offering him a mug of ale. Though she preferred wine, she kept a carafe of ale for him.

“Thank you,” he said, dropping a kiss on her forehead in mute apology.

A tub steamed by the fire. Jon gestured with his mug.

“Shall I leave so your ladies can tend you?”

“You can bathe here, if you prefer. Missandei brought a shaving mirror along with your clothes,” she said, with a flick of eyebrow. Jon smiled, scratching the thick beard on his chin. He hadn’t shaved since Golden Tooth.

“Very well. Let’s get trussed up. I’m starved.” Daenerys threw him a saucy grin over her shoulder, her dressing gown trailing after her in a pool of lacy fabric.

“Me too. We worked up an appetite.”

Jon gulped, arousal a low burn in his belly.

“Aye.” His voice emerged in a low rasp.

Though perhaps too exhausted for another round—at least before supper—there was time for a bit of teasing. Grinning, Jon set aside the mug and took a step toward her. Daenerys turned to face him, brandishing the wrapped bundle of clothes like a shield. _Decent form_ , he thought with some amusement.

“None of that, Ser. We have to be downstairs. I must address the men before the feast can begin.” Jon sank into a crouch, padding through the thick dark carpet toward her. Ghost looked up from where he lay by the fire, ears pricked. Simple play felt cathartic, he felt almost giddy with it. The mood was catching, Daenerys’ eyes had a laughing sparkle.

“Of course, milady. We cannot be late,” he teased. Jon stepped around the table, creeping close enough to pounce. Ghost rose, padding over to Daenerys. The direwolf leaned his massive head against her elbow. Jon’s heart swelled. Daenerys danced around Ghost, patted him with tentative hands if he moved near. Jon was pleased she was growing more comfortable with him.

“Oh, you’re on her side now, are you?” Jon said, with mock annoyance. Daenerys bit her lower lip, a smile quivering on her cheeks.

“He’s a smart wolf. Knows when to obey,” she said, scratching Ghost behind the ears. Ghost leaned into the caress, tongue lolling in a canine smile. Daenerys glared down her nose at Jon.

“Jon, no.” Laughter trembled beneath the words. Abandoning the clothes, she took up an ivory comb.

“Come here!” Jon said, lunging. Daenerys squeaked, darting around the table.

Jon and Ghost gave chase, Jon barely missing the sash of her dressing gown. Ghost threaded between them, getting in the way, tail wagging madly. They ran in dizzy circles, whooping like children. Jon cornered her at the footboard of the bed, elbowing Ghost’s bulk out of the way.

“Move, Ghost!” Jon gasped through his laughter.

The wind whistled as she swiped at him with the comb, breathless with laughter. One blow connected with his shoulder. The tines stung.

“Ow!” he yelped, sniggering. Daenerys clutched her sides, leaning against the bedpost. Jon disarmed her, wheezing himself. Her loud snort sent them both into fits. Jon sank to sit on the carpet beside her, tears of mirth leaking from his eyes. The muscles of his abdomen felt sore. Ghost set his head on Daenerys’ shoulder.

“Good boy,” she said, stroking his muzzle. After a moment, she managed: “Will—will you behave now, Ser?”

“Yes, milady. I swear,” Jon said, swiping his face.

The door burst open, Ser Barristan shouldering his way in, garbed in his usual armor. Finding his sovereign half-dressed on the floor, the old knight quickly averted his eyes. Jon leapt to his feet, helping Daenerys up as he did so.

“What is it, Ser Barristan?” There was none of the laughter left in her voice now, Daenerys was every inch the queen.

“Your Grace, you are needed in the bailey. There is something you must see.” Jon shrugged on his black leather jerkin, feeling his cheeks heat at the Queensguard’s scrutiny. _That’s twice he’s seen me fresh from her bed!_

“Of course, Ser. Give me a moment to dress. Missandei?”

“Here, Your Grace.” Her servant and companion stepped around Ser Barristan’s bulk. Jon stepped into his boots, throwing his belt over his shoulder. Daenerys caught his eye with a wistful smile. Jon’s fingers fumbled as he laced his jerkin, staggering after Ser Barristan.

“Ghost, with me,” Jon said, patting his thigh. The white direwolf padded after him.

“Ser Snow,” Ser Barristan said, with a nod of his silver head. Jon coughed, acutely aware of the weight of Ser Jorah’s gaze. Kovarro had told him the knight had been smitten with Daenerys during their travels together. Any man with eyes could see there was no ‘had been’ involved. Jon felt shamed at so clearly flaunting her preference for him. _The poor fool has to listen at the door._

“Ser Selmy,” Jon said.

“It is good to see the queen so happy,” Ser Barristan said, with the glimmer of a smile beneath his white mustache.

“I will never forget the honor.”

“See that you don’t,” Ser Jorah said, with a sour smile. Jon cleared his throat.

“Shall I arm, Ser Barristan?” Jon asked.

“No need, see to your men,” Ser Barristan said.

“As you say,” Jon said, turning to trot down the hall with Ghost at his heels.

 

At first, Jon thought it was a funeral fire. Had there been some accident or brawl? A garish orange blaze soared beyond the castle walls like a second sunset, belching gouts of black smoke into the sky. Ghost nosed his hand. Jon gave him an absent pat.

“Come, Ghost,” Jon said, loping to the western edge of the bailey where Ser Talhart and Jon’s captains gathered. The bailey seethed, men and women darting to and fro like frightened birds. Voice raised in a cacophony of languages, sharp with fear. Pages darted back and forth with hastily tacked mounts.

“It’s Lannisport, Ser. The city’s on fire,” Ser Talhart said, handing Jon the reins to Flint. The ash and soot had mingled with the snow, and fell in sickly grey flecks. Jon glanced at Daenerys’ banner hung on the rampart. The black flag emblazoned with a red three-headed dragon rippled under the sharp lash of the wind. He now understood. If the wind caught the embers, then the fire would spread. Though the castle roof was tile shingles, the stable, the sept, and the barracks were made of timber. 

“Is it the beasts? Have they gone wild?” Sterlin Hike, a captain from Torrhen’s Square said. 

“No, we would have heard them. The queen would have sensed it,” Jon said. He led Flint around to face his gathered men.

“Once we have our orders, we will have to move fast. Wear your leathers, lads. In plate, you’ll feel like you’re being roasted alive. Grab any bucket or tarp you can find! Quickly!” he shouted. The men scattered, Jon included.

Trotting to the barracks, he tied off Flint and ducked inside. The hall stretched before him with neat lines of two-tiered cots. A few cots were occupied by the injured men.

“What is it, Snow? What’s happened?” Talen asked, his bandaged hip propped on pillows.

“Lannisport’s on fire,” Jon said. The battered trunk beneath his cot held the tent issued to him, black oiled canvas neatly folded.

“This will do,” he muttered.

“Is it the monsters?” Talen said, reaching for his dirk sheathed on the small table beside his cot.

“No, Talen. The queen--” Jon said, biting back exasperation.

A roar shattered the air. Drogon.

“With me!” Jon yelled. The men of the North fell in line behind him.

Outside, Jon saw Drogon curled on the rampart. He glimpsed a flash of silver crawling up Drogon’s side. He was struck again by awe. The woman who was his lover and friend was also able to master a force of nature, fire made flesh.

A blur of green. Jon watched Rhaegal glide through the sky, a sleek shape of forest-green scales. _If your mother had her way, I’d be riding you,_ Jon thought.

Rakharo’s voice boomed from the keep: “Ride for Lannisport! By order of the khaleesi, we save the city!”

“Mount up!” Jon bellowed. He swung astride Flint, waiting as his men fell in line. Disciplined men all, they were quick to assemble.

“Hike, take the men from Torrhen’s Square and Barrowton. Talhart, Deepwood Motte, Olivar, the Rills and Wolfswood. Winterfell men with me. Keep tight formation--”

Flint shied beneath him as the massive black dragon leapt off the rampart. Heavy flaps of his wings carried him in the sky, Daenerys clinging to his back like a pale burr.  

“Keep tight formation. We can do this. Just like a bucket brigade for a burning barn, eh?” Jon said, striving for humor.

A couple men chuckled, though their eyes were shadowed. Battle they were ready for, they knew what to do, the objective was clear. In a fire, men and horses went mad. In a fire that size, a man could easily be overcome by the flames, or lost in the smoke. Another thought that lurked unspoken was by the time they reached Lannisport, the city could already be in ashes.

“Move out!” Jon said, urging Flint forward alongside Ser Barristan as the Unsullied began the laborious process of heaving open the Lion’s Mouth.

“Ser Jorah, Storm-Son, and Lord Tyrion will man the castle. The queen will direct those fleeing the city.”

“How did the fire start?” Jon asked. The knight shrugged.

“It was not the dragons. Rakharo and Missandei both saw all three settled in the crags. The queen saw to it they were well-fed before the feast.” A thought struck Jon like lightning.

“The gold? The grain?” he hissed. Ser Barristan looked as if each of his years weighed on him.

“I don’t know.”

Jon swallowed hard. Without the supplies from Highgarden, it would be lean winter. There were several hundred thousand mouths to feed, and only limited locations where the men could forage. Jon watched Drogon dart like a winged arrow through the gouts of smoke. Something cold and jagged settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he whispered to her.  

 


	18. Part XVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lannisport burns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers! I'd like to thank everyone for their continued support of this fic. The Jonerys Fanfiction Awards recently closed, and 'Held Captive' won Best Action! A big thank you to everyone who voted, left kudos and comments, and even just for reading. The comments keep me going! A side note, I also now have finally relented and got a tumblr. Check me out at the same handle. Now, onto the fic.

Part XVIII

 

“Lower, Drogon!” Daenerys leaned forward in the saddle, breathing through the leather mask Maester Jaron had given her. The irony was not lost on her that she and her children were usually the cause of such scenes. A ridiculous thought imagined Drogon blowing air instead of fire, extinguishing the blaze like a candle. Along the same vein, Daenerys imagined her dragons carrying giant buckets of seawater and dumping it on the city like artificial rain. _Ridiculous. How can I help these people?_     

The scene spread below them was hellish. The oily black gouts of smoke frayed by the wind reeked of destruction and decay, with a faint sickening tinge of burned flesh. Daenerys wiped watering eyes, coughing into the crook of her arm. Below tenements and warehouses burned. Fire roared and seethed like a living thing, in red, orange, gold and ghostly blue. People fled in chaos, clutching their children and their belongings. Narrow thoroughfares seethed like an upset anthill, wagons loaded with treasures looted and abandoned. Daenerys swiped her watering eyes. A throng of people rippled toward the water. The harbor was their sanctuary, blocked by a wall of burning debris. Wool, from the eye-stinging stench and greasy smoke. Perhaps she could funnel a few toward the safety of the water until her army arrived to try and combat the blaze.

“Land!” Daenerys said.

Daenerys loosened the leg straps and stood poised on Drogon’s shoulder as he landed. She jumped and landed lightly on the worn wooden dock.

The heat felt smothering. Already beads of sweat dampened her neck. Through the screen of fire, she saw a cluster of smallfolk approach. Daenerys stepped into the flames and shoved at a burning parcel of wool blocking the path, cursing as her clothing caught. Batting the flames from her tunic, she stepped through the fire. There was an impression of heat, but no pain, no injury. The smallfolk stopped dead, soot-stained and wide-eyed. The ungodly roar and crackle of the fire had shielded the sound of Drogon’s landing, the screen of smoke blocked his bulk.

“Mother save us, the dragon queen!” one woman said, clutching a weeping baby. The woman’s husband barred her with an outflung arm, a shaking hand brandishing a dirk.

“G—Get back, dragonspawn!” he said, his words quavering at the sight of Drogon’s head wreathed in smoke and flame, not to mention her smoldering form. Daenerys shoved the mask down.

“Come! I’ll guide you to the ships!” she said, with an ushering gesture, “I swear my dragon will not harm you.” Daenerys stood still, as if trying to coax a wild thing. The man lowered his dirk and reached for his wife.

A creaking, deafening groan, a snap like bone. Daenerys turned to the east in time to see the sept of Lannisport collapse, crumbling into the greedy maw of orange fire. Shards of stained glass littered the ground like a giant’s jewels. Fire roared through the yawning leaded image of the seven-pointed star. The faithful staggered from the blaze, aflame themselves. A child’s thin cry. Wet, sucking breaths before they collapsed in smoldering heaps. Men and women surged toward Daenerys, weeping and praying to their gods. Helpless, throat tight, Daenerys climbed the spikes of Drogon’s tail.

“Come! Come!” Daenerys shouted, bridging the mountain of burning debris blocking the harbor. A sweep of his tail widened the pathway through the flames. One by one, the smallfolk picked their way through, sprinting without a word of thanks for the remaining ships. A city watchman sounded his bugle, directing crazed townspeople toward the docks. Sweat streamed beneath her tunic and trousers, her hair plastered to the back of her neck.

Daenerys led another huddled family through, feeling a deep satisfaction, when a hand grabbed her arm. Daenerys drew her knife from her sleeve, ready to defend herself, though she’d had little training with it.

“Khaleesi,” Rakharo said, unflinching in the face of a spike of dark steel a thin span from his eye.

“Of course you made it here first,” Daenerys said, clapping his shoulder in greeting. Rakharo grinned.

“What do we do?”

“I am aloft. I’ll see to those trapped in upper floors. Have the men form bucket brigades. The roads are narrow in this city, keep the archers ready and stay on guard, we don’t know if this fire was set as a trap.”

Rakharo’s black eyes glinted.

“Most khals would let the city burn, loot it later.”

“I am not most khals,” she said with a gesture toward her burned clothing and Drogon. Rakharo clapped a closed fist on chest in crude salute.

“This is so, blood of my blood. By your words,” Rakharo said, mounting his black in one clean leap. Reining the blowing stallion around, he barked orders in Dothraki. Daenerys climbed up Drogon’s spikes and settled in her own saddle. The army arrived from Casterly Rock, pouring into the city with the grace of long practice.

“ _Soves_!” Drogon surged into the air. Through their bond, there was a wave of something like confusion. Drogon too was unused to being a rescuer instead of a wreaker of havoc. On the edges of her awareness, she felt Rhaegal and Viserion circling high overhead. There close, if she needed them.

Leaning up and forward, Daenerys urged her dragon in a slow spiral upward. Cutting through the plume of smoke, Daenerys could see the true extent of the damage.

The manor house at the center of the city, where most of the treasury resided, had not yet caught. From the air, Daenerys saw a ragged ring of tight-packed houses and businesses around the manor that remained unscathed. Undulating lines of men doused buildings with buckets, more heaved bags of sand to smother the flames of neighboring tenements. There was neither ballista nor weapon in sight. The citizens of Lannisport had not set the fire. Tonight they hoped only for survival.

Daenerys urged Drogon north to the gate where her army trotted in on lathered horses. Her men were only lightly armed and armored, though each had their shields lashed to their saddles. Wise for the heat, but not a fight. _Gods let this be an accident._ A glint of armor and flash of white. Ser Barristan.

“Lower, Drogon,” she said in Valyrian. Drogon flared his wings, hovering over the gatehouse.

“Ser Barristan! Rakharo told you my orders?” she shouted, her throat raw and sore. Over the fire and Drogon’s wings, it was hard to make herself heard.

“Aye, Your Grace!” the knight shouted back to her.

“I want Ser Snow and his men with me! There are people trapped in upper stories.”

“The northmen are at the docks!” Ser Barristan shouted.

“Stay on your guard!” she shouted. Her Queensguard saluted in reply. 

At the docks, Daenerys ordered another commander to take over the bucket brigade Jon had formed. Daenerys saw her relief mirrored in Jon’s dark eyes, relief at seeing the other whole and safe.

“Come!” she shouted. Jon barked commands, urging Flint east after Drogon.

The eastern half of the city was hardest hit, filled with poor tenements and dilapidated warehouses. The plan was to go floor and floor, save who they could, and meet in the middle. They were able to liberate huddled smallfolk from three buildings in rapid succession.

 A few sweeps of Drogon’s wings, and they were poised over another large tenement. A beam from a neighboring building at set the fifth floor afire. Faintly, there were shouts and weeping from within. Daenerys felt a sharp flash of anger through their bond as Daenerys crouched poised on Drogon’s shoulder. She soothed him with an image of her riding again soon. As far as she knew, dragons did not feel fear, but this anger had a colder savor to it.

“All will be well, love,” she said in Valyrian, rubbing his frilled spikes. A glance down the dizzying distance to the cobbled street below found Jon and his men in position.

With that, Daenerys leapt off Drogon’s back to land on the tenement roof. The hatch door gave way to her kick as Daenerys secured the mask. She was immune to flame and heat, even smoke to some degree. Still, it was to be a long night. Thick black smoke clung to the ceiling and walls in oily tendrils, sweltering heat pressing in on all sides. The hall stretched before her long and narrow, its turns and doorways lost in a greyish haze. The building groaned beneath them.

Not much time.

“Hello? I’m here to help! Where are you?” Daenerys shouted, threading between scattered belongings and those unlucky souls who succumbed to the smoke. A dirty child, maybe ten years old, gaunt-faced with solemn eyes staggered to an open door at Daenerys’ left.

“Help! My mum!” she said, tapering into weak coughing. Daenerys ducked through the slanted doorway. The woman huddled, clutching a sniffling babe. The room reeked of neglect, their clothing moth-eaten.

“Come, we must go. Now!” Daenerys said, offering a hand. The woman slapped away her hand. 

“Get away! This is your fault!” she shrieked, yanking both children close. _Idiot woman!_

“There’s no time, we have to--”

The floor shuddered. Daenerys took the girl by the arm and threw her over her shoulder. Small fists pounded Daenerys’ back as the girl did her level best to squirm free. _Let me save at least one!_

“We have to get out of here!” she shouted.

Daenerys staggered toward the stair at the end of the hall. Only the clatter of steps and hail of curses told her the woman was following. Daenerys gulping in deep breaths, fighting the burning in her muscles as they descended one flight, then three. The child felt like a lead weight. At least she’d stopped struggling.

“Almost there!” she said. She could feel the cold breath of outside air, feeling the smothering grip of heat loosen.

A flaming beam crashed two steps in front of her with a shower of embers. Daenerys hadn’t the breath to waste on a scream. She recoiled from the fresh blast of heat. The girl and her mother shrieked in unison. Daenerys set the girl down. Maybe if she shouldered it up—as the smoke thinned, she saw there was space to duck under. Daenerys smothered the embers on the beam with her palms.

“Come on!” she said. The girl, her mother and the babe squirmed beneath the beam, wild eyes holding gleam of hope. Six steps more and they were free, gasping in the cold air of the night. Daenerys sank to her knees on the blessedly cool cobbles, watching her men usher the woman and her children away. Sweat dried in the night air, the sweet cold breath curling in her lungs.

Ser Talhart loped over from a bucket brigade.

“Did you see Ser Snow, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice a smoky wheeze. Fear sang through her. Daenerys flew to her feet.

“No. He’s still in there?” 

The man paled, dark eyes wide.

“We haven’t seen him. He rescued three families, said there was one more left—Your Grace!”

Daenerys was already inside and halfway up the first flight of stairs. The heat and smoke pressed close, so much worse than before. Jon, in his heavy leathers, could have fallen already . . .

“Jon!” Daenerys shouted, choking on thick dark smoke. She couldn’t _see_! Dropping to her knees, she crawled to the landing on the second floor. Her eyes burned, a cough tickled the back of her throat.

“Jon, where are you?” she croaked.

“Dany.” It was a weak thread of sound.

Daenerys cursed, looking in vain for its source. Daenerys stood, trotting down the abandoned hall.

“Jon? I’m here, where are--” Daenerys tripped over something soft, falling hard to her knees.

“Oof!” Jon groaned. Daenerys scrambled toward where he lay drooped against an abandoned chest.

“Gods, I’m sorry! Are you all right?” she asked, hauling his head and shoulders into her lap. Jon’s familiar half-smile, half-grimace greeted her. Daenerys’ heart gave a sharp flip inside her chest.

“Could be better. You have to get out of here, Dany. It’s a trap.” She saw the dark stain to his side. A cold feeling clutched her innards in sharp talons, _squeezing_ at the sight of his blood. Daenerys peered through the smoke-wreathed hall. What idiot would risk staying in a burning building to stab rescuers?

“We have to go. We have to get you up,” Daenerys said, shoving at his shoulders. Jon groaned, rolling to his hands and knees. Threading his arm over her shoulders, Daenerys gasped as he leaned on her. So heavy. Drunkenly, they reeled toward the stairs. His trousers were sticky with blood.

“He heard you yelling upstairs. I got him with my dirk, but not before the fucker knifed me,” A twitch of his arm indicated the dead man sagging through a doorway.

“There was a tattoo on his wrist. Skulls on a pike.”

“The Golden Company. The pretender,” Daenerys said.

The two of them reached the stairs. Burning debris blocked their path. The tenement shuddered—a deep groan along with sharp snapping sounds. Panic rose sharp and jagged in her throat.

“It’s coming down! We have to move!” Jon said, setting his shoulder under the beam. With a hoarse scream, he heaved upward. Burning embers skittered down his body. Daenerys kicked the burning debris to widen the opening. Beyond the thin gap, cool air and the voices of friends.

“Jon--”

“ _Go_!” he bellowed, trembling with the strain of holding up the load. Face set in a rictus of strain, Jon’s sable eyes met hers for an instant.

“I love you.” His whisper was soft as summer. Ser Talhart was waiting. Thick arms encircled her, dragging her kicking and howling from the tenement.

“Jon! Jon! _Jon_!” her voice cracked and broke, along with pieces of her heart. The building began to topple. Tears obscured her vision. The tenement wall snapped outward, crumbling to the ground in a mighty crash of burning wood.

“Shhh, shh, milady. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Ser Talhart whispered. Through their bond, she reached for her children.

“Drogon, help! Help Jon!”

The ground shuddered. It was not Drogon but Rhaegal who landed. Rhaegal lunged his head through a narrow opening in the rubble. With delicate gentleness, her dragon dragged Jon through the ruined doorway. Daenerys shoved off Ser Talhart’s restraining grip and sprinted toward them.

“Jon!” she said, her hands fluttered, useless.

White dust and ash covered him. He looked like a shade already, save for the sluggish red trickle from his side. Blood pearled on his right cheek where something scraped him. His left little finger jutted at an odd angle, clearly broken. Daenerys staunched the wound at his side with her fingers. His heart still beat. Tears pattered on his face.

“Jon, wake up. Wake up for me,” she said, petting his hair with her free hand. His eyelids fluttered open, then flew wide. Jon twisted, surging up to a seated position.

“Fuck!” he said, clutching his side. Belatedly, she realized Rhaegal was poised over them, watching with calm bronze eyes, radiating warmth. A bit of a fright to see a dragon upon waking.

Relief sluiced through her in a surge of cleansing tears. She clutched him close, pressing her lips against his neck, feeling the reassuring leap of his pulse. Jon’s grip was reassuringly tight around her. He crooned sweet nonsense into her ear, petting her snarled hair until Ser Talhart shouted: “Does he need a healer, Your Grace?”

“Yes, yes! Come!” she said, reluctantly relinquishing her grip on him. The healer was one of Maester Jaron’s assistants, a willowy herb-woman by the name of Crissyn.

Jon waved off the cloth stretcher two servants brought, tottering to his feet. Daenerys drew his arm across her shoulders, bearing his weight as he limped the short distance to the relative safety of the pier to the healers’ tent.

“Ser Snow is wounded. Tend him. Now!” she snapped.

The healers scurried to obey. Daenerys imagined she made a terrifying sight: clothing half-burnt, hair wild, tear tracks cut through the soot on her face. Gentle hands peeled off Jon’s studded leather jerkin. A slip of a knife widened the hole cut in his linen under-tunic. The squeezing talon around her innards seized as they swabbed the wound with linen. It was an impressive gash along his ribs, stretching as long as her forearm and deep. Gods, was that _bone_? Healer Crissyn peered at the wound in the light of the lamps.

“Lie back, Ser. A quick wash and we can stitch you up,” she said. Her matter-of-fact words were a small comfort. Jon leaned back on the bench. He looked up at her, mustering the vestige of a smile.

“You don’t have to stay. There’s work to be done,” he said. Daenerys took his hand, reassured by the strong, warm grip.

“I’ll stay with you,” she said. Jon kissed her knuckles.

“No, your men need you, the city needs you. Tell Ser Talhart he had command while they stitch me up. Be careful.” Daenerys dashed the lingering tears from her cheeks, straightening her spine. Her world whittled down to only the sound of Jon’s heartbeat. Three little words and he shattered the crystal image of the queen, leaving only a tearful, terrified woman. She cleared her throat.

“We will discuss this later. Be well,” she said briskly, squeezing his hand. Turning her back to him was a near impossible task. Each step away from him, a torment.

Ser Talhart waited outside with Flint and his own rawboned sorrel. By the time the tent flap closed behind her, Daenerys had a semblance of her mental armor back in place. The shivering center of her soul keened for Jon.

“Ser Talhart, Ser Snow has given you command while he is tended. Your orders are to join up with Ser Barristan’s forces to put out the fire. Understood?”

Hearing the steel in her tone, the knight stood straighter.

“As you say, Your Grace,” he said, tugging his forelock in salute, “Y—Your Grace, this man would like to speak to you.”

Daenerys turned to find a bluff, sweating man in Lannister livery looked at her with beseeching blue eyes. _A city watchman._  

“Help us, milady. Please!” he wheezed, eyes flicking toward her circling dragons.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Wat, milady, of the City Watch,” he said, with an approximation of a bow.

“How can I help?”

Following Wat’s direction, Daenerys mounted Drogon and flew to the center of the city. Drogon swiveled his great head to look at her, amber-red eyes intent. No doubt he felt her turmoil.

“I’m all right, darling,” she said. Daenerys closed her eyes, seeking inner quiet. Ser Talhart and the northmen trotted at her heels. Tucking his wings, Drogon settled on a green before the manor house. Wat, winded from running, gestured to a grey bearded man wearing a gold lion insignia.

“Captain,” she said, poised on Drogon’s shoulder. It was a calculated gesture, making the man look up at her. Look up, and see the massive dragon at her command.

“My queen,” he said, with a sharp nod. The captain reminded her of harsher Ser Barristan, sage in years and unbending in form. Cold grey eyes were fixed on Drogon, who surveyed the scurrying men with regal disinterest.

“Do you know how the fire started?” she asked with some sharpness. She wouldn’t put it past a Lannister loyalist to harbor the Golden Company sellswords. _Bloody cowards attack us when we try to rescue the poor fools who live in this city!_ Captain Lannys raked a grimy hand through his hair, still tinged with its former blond at the roots.

“Some of the lads say a brawl in the granary. Others say it was arson. Others say a dragon rode in and set the sept afire.” The last was said with a wary glance at Drogon. Daenerys swallowed the hot knot of anger in her throat.

“It was not my dragons, Captain. In fact, it would be wise to remember we came to offer assistance. Any lives lost tonight would prick my conscience, but not my armies.” _I could leave you to die and it would be no cost to me_ , was the glaring subtext. Captain Lannys coughed.

“Of course.” He had the grace to sound ashamed at least.

“Now, what is our plan for evacuating the citizens? Last I looked there were ships in the harbor.”

“Yes, my queen.”

 

Under Daenerys’ command, the City Watch combined with her men gathered anything they could think of to hold water, conscripting any able-bodied man or woman they could find. Bucket brigades wove from the docks and wells.

The night passed in a blur of noxious smoke and grey exhaustion. Daenerys circled the city for the thousandth time on Drogon. While the fire ate away at the buildings already on fire, it also did not spread. Rakharo and Ser Barristan both dragged slain sellswords to lay at her feet. In all, twenty-five Westerosi men bearing the Golden Company tattoo on their wrists—twenty-six including the one Jon killed. Her eyes burned and watered with strain, every muscle ached. Had it only been two days since they arrived in the Rock? In that time, only a watch or two of sleep all told.

Her men weren’t any better off. A long march followed by the night toiling in Casterly Rock’s mines. Then, as they were about to feast and rest, another grueling ride and sleepless night. She was grateful for the cold, bracing wind. Without it, she would have fallen asleep in the saddle. Even her children seemed to fly a bit slower, the stroke of their wings labored.

“We saved the city,” Daenerys said aloud.

She glimpsed a small black speck out of the tail of her eye. Daenerys turned, seeing a raven winging toward them. Drogon allowed the bird to approach. It was too small to be a satisfying snack anyway. The bird landed lightly on her forearm. She plucked the narrow thread of parchment from the casing attached to the bird’s leg. In Tyrion’s cramped hand read two words: _Valar glaesa,_ crude Valyrian for ‘All men alive?’ Though his spoken Valyrian was execrable, her Hand had a fair grasp for the written form. Few Westerosi knew Valyrian, so it became an easy shorthand for raven scrolls. Riffling through her saddlebag, she found a stub of a charcoal pencil. She scrawled a reply on the reverse of Tyrion’s message. _Mirre iksis sȳrī._

As the sky lightened into day, a soft golden kiss through a gauzy screen of cloud, Lannisport still stood. Scarred, smoking, but standing yet. Clouds gathered out west at sea, she hoped there would be a rainstorm brewing. Gods knew they could use all the help they could get. Below, the weary ripple of the bucket brigade moved more water to douse the smoking ruin of the sept. A horn sounded, the Lannisport men calling an end to their watch.

“Take me down, love,” she said in Valyrian. Drogon made a low, undulating growl, but skimmed lower without demur. _A good thing, I don’t have the strength to fight him._

Daenerys loosened the leg restraints, her hands shaking as if palsied. Her legs held her with only a faint tremble of complaint. Ser Barristan moved through the crowd toward her, along with Ser Talhart and Jon. A knot of tension in her belly loosened and dissolved at the sight of her knight, even though he looked pale and hunched. He met her gaze and mustered a wan smile.  

Captain Lannys urged his mount as close as the poor animal would dare, pawing and snorting in distress. Dark circles hung beneath the captain’s cold eyes, soot deepening the wrinkles on his seamed face.

“The city of Lannisport owes you a debt, my queen,” he said. A man of the west to the bone, the words seemed to choke him. Daenerys wished Tyrion was at her side. As it was, she was too tired to muster a sufficiently witty reply.

“Westeros is mine, by right. As such, the men and women of Lannisport are my subjects. I will defend this city and any other from cowards who seek to see it burn, like the sellswords of the Golden Company.” She gestured to the corpses laid out in the square, watching Captain Lannys’ stern face. His expression did not waver. If he was complicit with the Golden Company, then she couldn’t tell. Drogon’s superior senses gave no intention away.

“Daenerys Targaryen, Shield of Lannisport!” Wat of the City Watch said, raising a grimy fist in the air. The cheer was echoed by the Watch and citizen alike. Daenerys blinked. The title had been one reserved for the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. Satisfaction rose soft and warm in her chest. It was gratifying knowing she’d earned their admiration.

“Thank you for your kind words. I for one think we have earned our rest,” she said to a chorus of laughter. Wat shouldered his way through the crowd.

“Thank you for everything, milady,” he said with a creaking bow. Wat grasped her hand in a supplicating gesture. Daenerys curled her fingers around what he pressed into her palm. The object felt cool and leathery. Keeping her face inscrutable, she nodded.

“You are most welcome, watchman,” she said. Wat melted into the crowd. Daenerys moved to scale Drogon’s spikes. Drogon shuffled and gathered beneath her as she settled in the saddle.

“Shall we leave a garrison in the city, Your Grace?” Ser Barristan asked. Daenerys glanced at the smoking husk that composed the eastern half of the city.

“Yes. Leave a legion in whatever building we can fortify. We’ll send fresh men once we return to the Rock,” she said.  

“Move out!” Ser Barristan shouted.

Daenerys peered into her palm. Parchment pressed with the faded outline of a kraken . . . and nestled inside, a golden dragon winking in the early light. On the reverse, the rose of Highgarden gleamed, marking it minted in the Reach. A glance at the milling men found no sign of Wat. Whether it was a tacit symbol that the gold smuggled from Highgarden was safe, or that the ironborn had smuggled it away, Daenerys could not tell. Her bloodriders ranged around her, waiting for the army to mobilize. Aggo nudged his heavy grey with a deft knee.  

“Did the princes of this stinking city offer gifts, khaleesi? Any khal would let it burn, take gifts and slaves after,” Aggo said, with a muscular shrug. His heft reminded her of Drogo.

“We do not take slaves, blood of my blood. But yes. We’ve been given many gifts. Gold,” she said. A grin lightened his scarred face.

“It is good,” he said.

 

The return journey to the Rock passed in a blur. She remembered the surge of Drogon beneath her. She remembered Ser Jorah’s weathered face, and walking on jellied legs to the lord’s chambers.

Jon sat on the edge of the bed, heaving a soul-deep sigh. The scrape on his cheek now boasted variegated shades of bruises, purple, green and a sickly yellow. Groaning, Jon peeled off his jerkin and tunic. The gash along his left side was neatly stitched and smeared with salve, scabbed to a crust along the outer edge. It would an impressive scar once it healed. The healer had splinted his finger too, it jutted out odd and straight from his hand. Daenerys poured watered wine for both of them. Jon drained his in one pass. She drained hers and sat beside him, bending to peel off her boots and socks.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired,” he croaked. Daenerys shoved off her trousers and crawled, singed tunic and all, beneath the coverlet.

“The march to Maidenpool comes close,” she said, sinking into the heap of pillows with a grunt.

“Aye, though then I could catch a few winks on Flint,” he said, wincing as he stretched beside her.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to summon the maester?” Daenerys asked.  

“I’m fine,” he said, the words garbled through a yawn, “just need sleep.”

“Don’t think we’re not going to discuss your stunt earlier.” Sleep rose up to swallow her. Jon’s chuckle was hoarse and warm in her ear, his hand curled around hers.

“Looking forward to it.”   

Sleep dragged her down to a warm darkness so complete it felt like death.

 

Daenerys cracked open one eyelid. Her view of the crimson canopy was a ruddy gold. Was it night or day? Her mouth felt mossy, her throat dry, and in desperate need for the privy.

“Jon?” Her voice emerged in a hoarse croak. She felt a sharp pang beneath her breastbone at finding the bed empty. Maybe his words of love in Lannisport were hastily made.

“Your Grace?” Missandei’s gentle voice, her shapely shadow as she parted the canopy.

“Missandei. How long was I asleep? The castle, the men--” Daenerys said, floundering with the tangled bedcovers. Daenerys scrubbed her face with her hands.

“All are well, Your Grace. Your small council managed. Lord Tyrion saw the castle guarded with fresh men, more sent to relieve the garrison in Lannisport. The rest sought their beds as you did. All is well,” Missandei said with a smile. Daenerys heaved a relieved sigh, noticing the sooty smear on the pillow.

“How long was I asleep?” she asked, shoving her tangled hair from her face. Missandei poured a cup of watered wine and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” Daenerys said, gulping thirstily.

“You slept all day and through the night. It is halfway past the noon watch now.” Daenerys cursed under her breath.

“Lannisport?” she asked.

“I do not know the details, Your Grace. Shall I send for Lord Tyrion?”

“Let me make myself presentable first. Is there--”

“Your bath is ready, along with a tray of food. The cooks’ work with the feast has not gone to waste.” Missandei gently took the empty cup and refilled it. Daenerys swallowed hard. She often took for granted how carefully her friend anticipated her needs. Grasping her wrist, Daenerys looked into Missandei’s amber-brown eyes.

“Thank you, my friend. I am sorry if don’t say it enough.” Her answering smile was genuine.

“Of course, Your Grace. It is my honor to serve.”

“I thank you all the same.”

Daenerys rose, shoving aside the canopy. The room was lit by a burning fire. Outside the murky glass on the balcony doors, the sky was a bruised grey, rain pattering on the panes in soft music. _Good, that should douse the last of the fire._ Missandei began striping the soiled linens from the bed, tossing them in a launderer’s basket.

After attending to her needs in the privy, Daenerys staggered out of her grimy clothes to add to the pile. On the sideboard, Daenerys took a length of coarse linen and scooped a generous fingerful of sea salt, pepper and mint to scrub her teeth and mouth. Missandei helped unfurl her tangled braids. Settling into the welcome heat of the tub, Daenerys let the peace of the day wash over her. She felt languid with deep sleep and the gentle chime of rain.

Sinking deeper into the tub, she let the water close over her. The beat of her heart was abnormally loud in her ears, heat burrowing into her bones and making her whole body throb. Breaking the surface, she breathed a soul-deep sigh. She blinked through water-spiked lashes. Missandei and another of her maids bustled about, laying fresh linens on the bed, lighting a brace of candles, shutting the curtains tight against the balcony doors.

“Ser Snow is with his men?” she asked.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Send for him, if he’s awake.”

 


	19. Part XIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon dances with dragons.

Part XIX

 

“Is the queen awake yet?” Jon asked. Missandei’s answering smile was gentle. Her serenity was always a comfort. 

“Only just. She has asked for you,” Missandei said. A longing look passed between the queen’s friend and Grey Worm, who stood guard at the door. Jon bit back a grin. _I wonder if I look that lovesick._

Jon stepped into the warmth of her rooms, struck mute by the sight of her wet, naked body limned by firelight.

“Jon,” she said, in that soft voice that melted him. Jon was suddenly self-conscious of his rain-soaked form—unmanageable hair plastered to his skull, beads of water on his usual black leather jerkin, Longclaw at his side.

Jon cleared his throat. There was an air of awkward shyness between them. _My foolish declarations. Let’s hope she didn’t hear me make a fool of myself._ His instincts always served him well with her, so he crossed the room to claim a kiss. Her wet skin felt hot through the leather of his jerkin, but her mouth was hotter. Daenerys made a soft hum as she deepened the kiss, burrowing her fingers into his hair. Jon warded off a shudder at the delicate scrape of fingernail. Jon eased off with a soft peck, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Hello, slugabed,” he said. Daenerys made a derisive sound in her throat.

“Forgive me, Ser. I was busy saving a city.” He snorted.

“Me too. I’ve only been awake about a half a watch myself,” Jon said, pecking a kiss on her nose. Jon smacked her arse. Despite his wounds, after a long sleep and a soak in the barrel tub, he was in a fine mood.

“You’re covered in gooseflesh. Sit down before your bath gets cold,” he said.

Daenerys sank into the embrace of the tub, the water murky with oils and herbs. The opacity of the water hid the shape of her, which was unfortunate, but there were other pleasures. Jon settled onto Missandei’s stool at the head of the tub, shifting Longclaw into a more comfortable position.  

“I left Ghost in the bailey. A wet direwolf will stink up the whole keep. Besides, he’s busy with the side of venison Magnus the cook gave him,” he said.

“Good. He’s earned it.”

Daenerys scrubbed her hair, then soaped a cloth and set about washing as they chatted about the Lannisport fire, the grueling ride back, the state of the castle. Jon told her the cooks had distributed the venison, pork, and bacon from the feast with breakfast. An exhausted Ser Talhart lost some of his roasted pork to Ghost. Daenerys’ stomach emitted a long, liquid growl at the description of food.

“You haven’t eaten yet? Shall I send for--”

“Missandei left a tray,” Daenerys said. Jon poured a measure of sweet-smelling oil into his hands. The maester had switched the awkward ash splint on his broken finger for a folded piece of linen wrapped tight around his last two fingers. It allowed a degree of movement and was much more comfortable.

“Come here, then,” he said, with an ushering gesture.

Jon’s hands—warmed by the fire and slick with rose oil—draped her wet pelt of hair over the lip of the tub and began patiently working in the oil from root to tip. He loved the shape of her skull beneath his hands, the thick, lustrous glory of her pale hair between his fingers. There was a hint of pain from his finger, but tolerable. Daenerys melted into the caress with a moan that went straight to his groin.

“You’re magnificent, you know that?” she said, smiling. Jon grinned, admiring the upended vision of her. Gilded by firelight, her eyes pools of deep violet, he was struck again by how lovely she was. Her front two teeth had the slightest inward tilt. Jon took up the comb and began at the ends. His only experience was grooming horses, and their tails were delicate. Jon found combing her hair was quite soothing.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” she sighed, eyes slipping closed. Jon concentrated on his work, keeping the strokes smooth and careful, teasing apart snarls with gentle fingers.

“I think you’re magnificent too. You conquered Casterly Rock with barely any casualties, then once you’ve saved their arses from a fire those bloody sellswords caused, the people of Lannisport give you a title that has always belonged to Warden of the West. To add to your collection.” Jon finished his combing, dropping a kiss on her forehead.

“You’ll have to catch up. I can think of a few,” she said, teasing. Daenerys rose from the chilled tub.

“Aye?” he said. Quite liking the role of her body-servant, Jon swathed her in a warmed towel, gently drying her skin.

“Jon Snow of House Stark, anointed knight of House Targaryen, tournament champion, Son of the First Men, Heir to the Kings of Winter, the White Wolf, Friend of Dothraki,” she said with utmost seriousness. _And lover of the Queen_ , he added. The thought was so sweet and so painful, he flinched away from it.  

“I like it. Though a bit grand.” His voice sounded choked to his own ears.

Daenerys giggled, shrugging on her dressing gown. Sitting cross-legged in one of the plush chairs, she plucked off the lid to the tray Missandei left. Relieved that his gaffe passed without comment, Jon rose to pour summerwine for her, ale for himself. He loosened his sword belt and set it on the sideboard—if he had his way he’d be shedding more layers very soon.

The tray held quite the spread. Slabs of roast venison basted in butter with mushrooms, half a loaf of crusty sourdough bread, a tureen of turtle soup rich with brandy, and a tart of airy pastry, filled with cinnamon-toasted almonds and topped with a dallop of clotted cream. Daenerys tucked into the meal with alacrity, but with her tidy princess’s manners, cutting her food into delicate bites. Though he’d already broken his fast, Jon obligingly polished off the tidbits she left. Sagging against the plush back of the chair, Daenerys heaved a sigh.

“That was lovely. But time to get to work--” A hot knot rose in his throat. There was so little time left.

“No,” Jon said, stepping between her and the door, “I was promised a day abed with you. And you’re a day late.” He saw the flash of temper enter her eyes.  

“Jon, I have work that must be done. I must hear the reports from Lannisport, review the books with Tyrion, tour the castle grounds with Ser Jorah--” she said, though he could hear the waver in them. Jon shrugged, standing implacable in her path.

“It’s raining. You’ll catch your death if you go out now. Hot Targaryen blood and all that. Send a raven for the reports,” he said, wincing as he folded his arms. The wound on his side reminded him when he did too much. _Jon_ could certainly use a day abed. Daenerys rolled her eyes.

“Send a raven? I’m just down the hall!”

“Then it won’t have far to fly, will it?” he shot back.

They stood, squared off like fighting pit combatants for several heartbeats. Then Jon cracked a smile, and an answering one split her face.

“Come here, then,” she said, untying the sash of her dressing gown.

Jon’s mouth watered at the thin expanse exposed, creamy white skin holding a lingering rosy flush, the soft inner curves of her glorious breasts, the dip of her navel, the downy blond curls of her cunt. His cock surged to aching hardness. He closed the distance, needing to be closer to her. Cheeks pinked, white teeth worrying her lower lip, Daenerys let the silk pool at her feet. Jon toed out of his boots, shaking hands making quick work of his trouser laces and the front of his jerkin, albeit clumsily with his broken finger.

Those violet eyes wandered over him, pupils round and dark. They lingered on his side—Maester Jaron had slathered the slash with salve and wrapped it lightly in linen.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. Daenerys hovered close enough to feel the caress of her warmth.

“Let me cherish you. You’ve endured too much pain,” she said, breathing a kiss on his scraped cheek. Air soft, the press of her lips was grazing, ticklish. Jon drew her close, taking her mouth in a rough kiss. The dance of lips and tongue, teeth and breath made his heart pound in his chest. Peeling back, Jon nuzzled her nose.

“I’m not made of glass,” he said huskily.

Daenerys tugged him back to lie on the mattress beside her. She straddled his lap, his cock tucked up throbbing against her belly. Jon groaned, seeking her mouth for another biting kiss. Daenerys’ hands wandered over him, feeling his shape, scraping those kitten-sharp fingernails down his back. A low sound escaped him. He flexed his hips, seeking friction. Panting, Daenerys broke the kiss.

“Not glass,” she said, rubbing her cheek against his beard, “Steel. Diamond.” A nibble along the curve of his ear.

“Honor and stubbornness, a smoldering temper, a good loyal heart--” Jon tipped his head back, hands splayed on her smooth back as she pressed a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck. She laid her hand flat over his heart. Through the pounding din of arousal, Jon was pierced by the brimming emotion in her eyes. She stilled, hesitated for several moments.

“I—I love you, Jon Snow. More than I ever thought possible,” she said. Her face swam before his eyes.

Though not glass, he was shattered all the same. Jon bit back his tears, cradling her face between his hands. _I must remember this. Every detail._ Half-dried silver hair curled and twisted every which way. Jon smoothed his thumb over the plump softness of her lower lip. Those eyes, blue and indigo and violet, so like her, changeable, fierce, tender, and lovely. A beautiful face that held his heart in those stormy eyes, that brave, strong heart, that wicked temper and dry wit.

“I love you, Daenerys Stormborn. I know I’m only a bastard, I have nothing to offer you--” She laid a finger over his lips.

“You’re everything I want. I’m not going to pretend this doesn’t complicate things--” Jon mirrored her gesture, silencing her with the press of a finger. He felt the stretch of her smile beneath his touch.

“We’ll think of something,” he said.

Daenerys parted her lips, suckling on the tip of his finger. Jon uttered a sound startlingly close to a whimper. Daenerys squirmed, pressing him flat on the mattress. In charged silence, she lowered her head to continue her path down his chest, meandering toward the tight buds of his nipples. Jon dragged in ragged breaths as she laved each nipple with her tongue, interspersed with sharp suckling. He’d never thought those were particularly sensitive, but her mouth made him shiver and throb and whimper. Jon pumped his aching cock, slick from the fluid weeping from the head.

“Yes, yes, Dany, please . . .” he whispered as she slithered down to kiss his belly. She smoothed the corded muscles of his calves and thighs, breathing soft kisses on the linen of his bandage. Prying his hands away, Daenerys settled between his thighs. The look on her face was something like worship. Jon knew it had never been just fucking between them, but this felt significant, almost holy.

“Gods, you have such a perfect cock. Thick and hard, just the right size. You fit inside me as if you were made for me.” The teasing puff of her breath on his cock made him flex and whine. Jon lay transfixed by her arousal-darkened eyes. The lap of her tongue up the underside and around the sensitive head made him see stars.

“Fuck! Dany, more. More please,” he breathed. Jon cupped her head, fingers tangling in her silky hair. Her mouth enveloped him in sensation. The wet heat. The chafe of her lips, the wet lash of her tongue, the milking, torturous pace . . . pleasure pounded in his ears. _Not yet!_  Jon peeled her off, his cock sliding from her mouth with a wet pop.

“I want to be inside you when I come. I want to pump you full of my seed.” His accent had thickened to an almost unrecognizable snarl.

“ _Yes_ ,” Dany said, settling over him.

Jon sucked in a breath through his teeth as she rubbed herself on his cock, teasing her pearl. So wet. Her dew kissed the head of his cock. Gripping her hips, he thrust up, sheathing himself in her silken heat. Daenerys arched her back, crying out. Daenerys settled over him, setting a slow, steady pace. Jon threw back his head, intolerably aroused by the friction of her skin, the press of her breasts, the heavy, musky-sweet scent of her cunt. His mouth watered at the thought of tasting her, the yielding slickness of ruby red flesh.

Daenerys peppered his face with kisses, her mouth tasting of candied almonds. He loved the pound of her pulse against his lips as he kissed her throat. Jon craned his neck to nuzzle the soft weight of her breasts and kiss those peaked nipples. Mm, sweet hard buds for him to suckle. Jon cupped the ripe weight of her buttocks, thrusting up to meet her downward strokes. Jon lost himself in her, in the soft sobs of her breath, the salty tang of her sweat, the delicate flutter of her cunt around his length. Daenerys’ pace quickened, her gasps sharper. Jon reached between their heaving bodies to tease her pearl.

“Oh gods . . . Jon!” she cried, back arched, muscles taut as she came. Jon groaned, eyes rolling back. The milking pulses of her cunt threatened to undo his sanity.

Jon urged her up, twisting pleasure slackened limbs so she lay beneath him, hair spread in a silver wave against the dark coverlet. Kiss-bruised lips, sleepy pleasure-darkened eyes, gods she was so gorgeous. The twist stretched the wound on his side, but Jon was beyond caring. Daenerys moaned as he thrust in anew, her muscles fluttering around him. Pleasure gathered, settling at the base of his spine. Jon kissed her messily, his deep strokes stuttering. His release rose up quickly, smothering him in a burst of white-hot pleasure. They rode out the aftershocks, rocking together in mindless, sweat-slick bliss. Daenerys pressed a kiss to his temple.                        

“You’re magnificent,” she whispered. Jon grinned against the side of her neck.

“Jon Snow the Magnificent,” he said, loving her soft laugh. Soon his heartbeat slowed. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, climbing from bed to snag his cup of ale. The cool liquid soothed his parched throat. Jon heaved a sigh of contentment as he settled in bed, nestled behind her.

“May I?” she asked. Jon handed her the cup, snickering at her wrinkled nose.

“It’s a fine ale,” he said, reaching over her to set the cup on the sideboard. Resting his chin on her shoulder, Jon traced his finger down the of muscle in her arm. Daenerys gave him a smile of singular sweetness.

“Better than what the Dothraki drink. They prefer fermented mare’s milk.”

“Ugh!” Jon said, yawning.

Rolling into a more comfortable position under the coverlet, with the delicious press of naked skin, they spoke quietly of simple things. It wasn’t long until Jon sank into dreamy sleep listening to the music of her breathing mingled with the faint patter of the rain outside.

 

Jon woke, a reflex glance at the window finding a crack of overcast sky. It was still raining, but by his guess they hadn’t slept long, maybe less than half a watch. Daenerys lay nestled into him, relaxed in repose. Jon pressed a kiss to her temple. Slowly, carefully, he moved away to seek the privy. Stifling a yawn, he stoked the fire, and chewed on a leftover heel of bread. Jon stepped into his trousers, shrugging on his jerkin.

“Jon? Come back to bed,” Daenerys sleep-slurred voice said.

“I’ll be right back. Go back to sleep,” he said, tucking the coverlet over her. Daenerys subsided with a sleepy hum.

“I dreamed we were flying together. Maybe if the sky’s clear tomorrow, we can fly,” she said. Jon swallowed hard at the thought.

“We’ll see.”

Jon belted Longclaw and struggled into his boots. Grey Worm and Storm-Son did not so much as blink as he slipped from the room. Jon gave them a polite nod, turning down the hall lit by spaced braces of candles.

The castle felt quiet, the rain drummed on the roof, wind creaked through the rafters. The rich crimson runner muted the sound of his steps, but the stairs were plain reddish stone. He found the door he wanted with little difficulty. The heir of Casterly Rock was housed in rooms that rivaled the lord’s, richly carved double doors with gold handles. Faintly, Jon heard the murmur of a female voice. Jon rapped three crisp knocks. Soon the door opened to reveal Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen. His scarred face gave away his surprise.

“Ser Snow, what a surprise! Come in,” he said.

A glance through the aperture found a pretty brown-haired maid lounging on a chaise. The opulence of the room was the same rich trappings as the lord’s chambers: thick crimson carpet, a wide balcony overlooking the sea, golden lions marching on every chair, canopy, and serving plate. Lysene incense curled sweet and cloying in the air.    

“Am I interrupting?”

“No, this is my . . . this is Raina Cobb,” Tyrion said, opening the door to usher him in. Jon stepped inside, lingering near the threshold. An awkward silence stretched the air thin. Jon raked a hand through his hair.

“Actually milady, may I speak to Lord Tyrion in private?”

Raina was young, possibly of humble origin—her gown simple homespun. She had a clean, wholesome face—not a perfumed whore, women whose company Tyrion was said to favor. Raina rose a bit sheepishly.

“Of course. I’ll, um . . . I’ll see to supper, Lord Tyrion,” she said with an awkward curtsey.

Once the door shut behind her, Tyrion climbed into a seat at the table before the roaring fire. He hadn’t cracked even one joke. The smaller man wasn’t drunk, a positive sign. His green eyes regarding Jon coolly.

“What can I do for you, Ser Snow?” he asked. _Straight to business, then. An almost northern sentiment._

The Lord Hand had not offered him a seat, so Jon stood at attention. He flexed his left hand, wincing at the bend in his broken finger.

“Do we have a problem, Lord Tyrion?” Jon asked, pointblank. Tyrion fiddled with his wine glass, his frown deepening.

“What is your meaning, Ser?”

“The queen tells me you suggested me and my men for this mission to infiltrate King’s Landing.”

“I did. What of it?” Jon kept a tight leash on his temper. That offhand tone infuriated him.

“This mission is incredibly dangerous, with a dubious reward. The North is currently a kingdom in open rebellion against the Iron Throne. Any goldcloak worth his salt would at least think twice if he encountered a supposed refugee with a northern accent. If me and my men go on this mission, we could likely be captured or killed in the process. So I say again, do we have a problem?” Jon said, in as even a tone as he could manage.

Tyrion, no slouch at reading tones, heard the heat beneath his words. To his credit, he did not simper or prevaricate.

“It is a plan with merit, you cannot argue against that. My spies tell me my sweet sister has men working day and night on the Street of Steel building ballistae. To disable even some of them would be a great help when we march on King’s Landing.”

“Aye, you’ve the right of it. But why me, specifically? You could recruit men from the Crownlands or the Vale who know the terrain, the people. I want you to say it.” The ghost of a smile lit Tyrion’s face.

“You’re a smart man, Snow. You must understand your position. The queen needs a suitable consort. And it would mar any future negotiations to have her lover brooding in the corner.”

Jon clenched his jaw hard enough to hurt his teeth. Tyrion’s words echoed his own words to Daenerys. He had nothing, was no one of import.

“Who would you marry her to? What lord worthy of her is still living, or unmarried?” he asked, standing square, challenging. Tyrion arched a brow.

“That is the question, isn’t it? While there is no obvious choice, like your brother or even _my_ golden brother—one hand in all—there still remains a couple potential suitors among the great houses left. Edmure Tully of Riverrun, Robin Arryn of the Eyrie, Quentyn Martell of Sunspear to name a few.” Jon scoffed.

“An old man, a soft-headed child, and a prince no one has seen since he sailed for Meereen.”

“Lord Edmure seemed quite taken with the queen at the tournament,” Tyrion said with a meditative sip of wine. Jon made a sharp gesture, dismissing the tangent.

“That’s not the point. The point is your idea of good strategy is to send me on a suicide mission to get me away from the queen!”

Needing a vent for the rising surge of anger and yes, desperation at the thought of leaving her, Jon paced in quick turns. Tyrion looked irritatingly composed, slouched and sipping his wine. A strange smile played at the corner of his mouth.

“Who would want a pretty brooding specimen such as yourself lurking in the background? Sneaking into the queen’s rooms at night?” Jon stopped, glaring at him.

“What’s between the queen and I is our own business,” he said, with a jab of his finger. Tyrion eyed him.

“Not when it effects the realm. It’s my job as her Hand to protect her, even from herself.”

“That’s the sticking point, eh? You won’t respect her choice.”

Tyrion heaved a sigh. He scratched his ruined nose.

“I like you, Snow. You’ve a better sense of humor than your father, but the same steely moral compass. Any man can admire your bravery, your skills, your wits. I can see why she cares for you. But think what’s best for _her_. How many lords will turn from her cause if she raises a bastard—even freshly legitimized—to the rank of prince consort? How can she hold Westeros together without a husband who offers swords or gold?”

Jon didn’t answer. There _was_ no answer. Tragedy and sorrow loomed closer with each passing day.

“We discuss the King’s Landing plan with the small council and send riders to Robb. It will be his men from the Vale or Crownlands I trust best.”

“Agreed. My former squire Podrick is among my spies in the capital. A very nondescript fellow, and loyal. He would be your guide, should you decide. I never wanted to send you to your death. I consider you a friend.” Jon snorted in reluctant amusement.

“Only a Lannister would call a man friend who he tried to kill.” Tyrion’s grin held a faint bleakness.

“Too true.”           

 

 

“How do we go about this?” Jon asked, with a nervous glance at Rhaegal’s monstrous green bulk. The sunlight was warm on their shoulders near midday, four days after the Lannisport fire.

Daenerys tugged him down to kiss him. Meant to be a glancing smack of reassurance, Jon cupped her chin, drawing in out with tender sweeps of his tongue. They were quite alone on the plain maybe a league north of the castle. The Rock’s formidable reddish bulk stood against a backdrop of a cloudless blue sky. Daenerys insisted on clear weather. There was a strong breeze, it rippled the yellowed grasses of the plain in stripes of gold and yellow.

Daenerys pressed her forehead to his, their breath misting in white puffs.

“Don’t worry. All three are well-fed. On the march here I got them used to their saddles.”

“I’m not worried about the saddle. I’m worried about the fire bit,” Jon said, releasing her. He dragged in a deep breath, stifling his inner turmoil. Ghost could always sense when he was worried or frightened. It seemed the height of foolishness to tip his hand to a beast like Rhaegal. Ghost joined them on the plain—at the moment he was stalking grouse near where they hobbled Flint and Daenerys’ silver.

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe,” Daenerys said. Her eyes, a glittering ice blue in this fair light, brimmed with excitement. She had carried this joy and this burden without anyone to share it with, or really understand it. The prospect of Jon being able to, even in an oblique manner, had her nearly giddy. _Well, I’ve walked through fire before to please her. And I’d happily do it again._

“We don’t have to fly today. We’re just getting them used to you,” she said. They had dressed warmly, in woolen tunics, heavy cloaks and gloves—just in case. Daenerys looked quite striking in her house colors of red and black.

Drogon, for his part, had already put his startlingly massive head an inch from Jon’s nose, then dismissed him completely. The cream-and-gold one, Viserion, was busy performing dizzying spirals in the air. Jon’s stomach lurched. While he wasn’t afraid of heights per se, he also did not want to push those limits.

Jon cleared his throat and edged closer to Rhaegal. Daenerys matched his careful step on through knee-high yellow grass, the ground making faint squelch beneath their boots from recent rain. Her husky voice murmuring words in Valyrian was both pleasant and faintly arousing.

Rhaegal regarded him with bronze eyes, shot through with striations of gold. The slitted pupil was a thin band of black—which Daenerys assured him was a good sign. Their pupils went wide and black when they were poised to kill. _Rhaegal_ , named for her brother Rhaegar, the prince who she loved and admired. Also the same man who had captured, raped, and possibly murdered his aunt Lyanna. The thought raised a welter of tangled emotions. Rhaegal shook his horned head, long reptilian lips quivering.

“Stop,” Daenerys said with a stalling gesture. Jon froze, heart in his throat. He kept eye contact, groping for his previous measure of calm. With a deep exhale, Rhaegal settled, wings fluttering into a more comfortable position. Rhaegal lowered his head closer. Jon peeled off his glove, tucking it through his belt.

“Slow,” Daenerys whispered in his ear. Jon was deeply grateful for her warm and steady presence.

Jon’s hand was steady, closing the impossible distance to rest on the bony ridge of Rhaegal’s cheek. The heat was a shock, a hair shy of uncomfortable, the green scales smooth as river stones. The spikes and frills, horns and fangs made for a fearsome head, made more so by those glowing eyes, pulsing like an ember. Instead of feeling small, weak, Jon felt an intense rush of pure emotion. Joy, power, fear, he couldn’t give it a name. He had the sense the dragon was listening.

_Friend_. Jon didn’t speak the word aloud, though Daenerys had taught him the Valyrian word: ‘ _raqiros_.’ Instead it was focused thought, one he _pushed_ towards Rhaegal. Daenerys murmured low words in Valyrian, and he heard the translation of his own name ‘ _Ionos.’_ His eyes watered in an effort not to blink. Rhaegal broke eye contact, lifting his head out of Jon’s reach. Startled, Jon risked a glance at Daenerys.

“Good. Very good, Jon. You can approach if you want.”

Jon clenched his jaw, mincing his way closer to Rhaegal’s sleek form. The saddle was cinched tight—Daenerys had been diligent in checking. Jon glancing up the impossible length of Rhaegal’s serpentine neck.

“Do I just . . . climb up?” Jon asked. Her smile was like sunshine. Excitement fairly crackled off her.

“If you like. Rhaegal wouldn’t let you close if he didn’t want you to try,” she said. Jon swallowed, trying to summon spittle for his dry mouth.

Slowly, carefully Jon gripped the spikes crowning Rhaegal’s neck. Every sense was sharp, painfully aware. The dragon smelled of smoke, along with a deeper pungent tang. Heat radiated off those smooth green scales that gleamed in the sunshine. Jon settled in the saddle, disoriented by the height. Daenerys looked so small besides Rhaegal’s bulk.

“Leg straps!” she called up.

It was on his tongue that he’d reached his limit in daring for the day when Rhaegal shifted, wings stretching wide to catch the headwind. Jon clenched his legs tight against the dragon’s shoulders, hands braced on the thick spike in front of him.

“Seven hells! Rhaegal, wait!” he shouted.

The dragon ignored him, surging forward in three teeth-jarring leaps. Jon grunted as he bit his tongue. Every muscle tensed to stabilize himself. The leg straps may as well have been in Essos for all the good they did him. Rhaegal surged into the sky, wings flapping. The leathery beat of his wings seemed to Jon like a clap of thunder. There was terror of course, but matched by joy, _exhilaration_. In one breathless moment, they were airborne.

Rhaegal rose in the air, skimming in gentle circles over the plain. He glimpsed Ghost, a furry, white ant against a backdrop of undulating grasses. Drogon rose, a massive black shape alongside Rhaegal’s right flank.

“Jon! Are you all right?” Daenerys’ voice reached him in a thin thread over the wind. She was a pale burr clinging to Drogon’s back.

“Great!” he said, beaming. Daenerys’ laugh was a burst of joyous sound.

Jon relaxed his sweaty grip on Rhaegal’s spikes as they soared. The wind buffeted him, cold and bracing, though the sun was warm on his face. The Westerlands were spread below like a ridged carpet of muted brown, burnt orange, and faded yellow. The riverroad wormed through the crags and valleys like a grey snake.

Rhaegal climbed in the sky with smooth sweeps of his wings, breaking through a thin screen of cloud. Jon let out a whooping yell. The green dragon craned his head around, regarding him with a gleaming bronze eye. A faint thrum whispered along the edges of his consciousness. Jon stilled, straining to listen. But, try as he might, Jon could not decipher what Rhaegal was trying to tell him.

_Gods, flying! Flying with only the sky and sun above you!_ Jon leaned forward and left in the saddle. Rhaegal obligingly banked left, shallow and gentle. With an undulating roar, Viserion joined them, swooping and twisting. Daenerys and Drogon were showing off with fancy loops and rolls. Jon couldn’t wipe the smile his face. Drogon swung close. Daenerys cupped her gloved hands to her mouth and shouted: “Let’s fly for a while along the coast!”

“I’ll follow!” Jon yelled back.

Drogon banked southward. They soared over the castle, the Targaryen banner snapping in the strong, clean wind. The sea was a glorious sight, stretching on into infinity. Jon had seen the frozen lakes north of the Wall, glittering and terrifying in their beauty. He’d grown up among the Wolfswood and hidden lakes of the North, the black pools in the godswood. They paled before the boundless beauty of the sea. _So blue._ Sunlight glinted on the surface like flashes of molten silver, waves rippling endlessly.    

“Thank you for letting me fly with you,” Jon said, leaning close and patting Rhaegal’s muscular shoulder. All the world far below. In the air there was only the wind and the sky, the dragons and Daenerys. Jon blamed the tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes on the whipping wind. Within there was only joy and gratitude at this priceless gift. 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments appreciated!


	20. Part XX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations abound.

Part XX

 

“And then, Snow—oh beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace— _Ser_ Snow comes staggering out of his tent in his smallclothes sayin’ ‘What did I miss?’” Ser Talhart broke off his retelling to laugh. _A great roaring sound for so stocky and taciturn a man._

“What did I miss?” Dougal Olivar, one of Jon’s commanders repeated, between wheezes of laughter. Daenerys smothered her laugh in her cup, aware of Jon’s glowering. It was good-natured, she thought, given the relaxed meal by the guard-fire with Jon and his officers.

On her tour about the castle, Daenerys had been hailed by Ser Talhart, by this time enjoying his ale. Daenerys shifted on the stool, grateful for Ghost’s furry bulk to block the icy wind. The gales of laughter tapered off. Jon shrugged, wearing a wry smile.

“I never took my boots off the night before a battle again. And I will say again, Theo, that I was fully clothed,” Jon said. Ser Talhart blew air between his lips. Olivar slapped Ser Talhart’s back in rough camaraderie.

“Words! Words, Snow!” he said, draining his cup.

“Was Lord Stark unhappy to hear the men tricked you?” she asked. Lit by the inconstant orange waver of a brazier, Jon had that quiet, watchful energy that reminded her of a wolf. His smile was a wet white gleam in the dark.

“It was his idea,” Jon said. Daenerys threw back her head and laughed. The concept was foreign to her, this playful teasing. Viserys’ idea of play was cruel. Drogo, for all the tenderness he learned with her, Dothraki didn’t understand games.

Soon the talk degenerated into regaling each other with embarrassing tales as ale flowed. By her decree, no man was ‘drunk,’ but none were sober as judges. The gathered men coughed and shuffled, seemingly unbothered by the cold air. Most wore only their cloaks, without gloves or scarves. Northmen seemed impervious to cold.

“I hear our Snow is more than a knight now,” Olivar said, a man roughly Ser Jorah’s age, with a ruddy tinge to his fair hair and beard. The scarred hand curled around his alecup had two fingertips missing just past the second knuckle of his ring and littlest fingers. He was a quiet man, but an able and loyal commander, by Jon’s estimation. Daenerys met his hard blue gaze unflinchingly. Word of Jon riding Rhaegal had spread. Rumors ran rife among fighting men when there was no one to fight at the moment. Trading juicy gossip was an easy way to while away long hours on watch.

“Aye, a dragonrider as well,” Ser Talhart said with a measured look. Though his regard was warm, his manner respectful, Daenerys noticed a subtle suspicion, a wariness. Daenerys felt a pang at the thought of separating Jon from the men who were his friends and allies. A life of dragons was beyond their ken.

“In more ways than one!” said a young soldier, leaning against his crutch.

Daenerys’ smile fell. There was a palpable chilling in the air.

“Watch your mouth, Talen!”

“Idiot boy!”

Jon stood, along with Ghost, who quivered beneath Daenerys’ touch in a low, steady growl.

“If you disrespect the queen again, I’ll have your tongue,” he said, with a voice like cold steel. The moment stretched on and on, broken only by the keening wind.

Daenerys broke the tension by standing, smoothing the drape of her long tunic. The boy—Talen—looked pale in the brazier’s light. Though the jibe had stung, to retaliate with punishment rang too much along the vein of her father. _The Mad King’s daughter. Whenever a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin._

“I have matters to attend to. Good evening,” she said coolly, amid protest from the men. Jon caught her eye, radiating conflict. She gave the barest shake of her head. To have him trail after her to share her bed would only add fuel to the fire. She cared little and less what an uneducated boy from the North thought of her, but it cast what lay between her and Jon—which was beautiful and precious in her eyes—in an uncomfortable light.  

Once the doors to the lord’s room closed, she sank into a chair by the fire. Heat seeped into her numbed hands. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew some whispered that she was a wanton, a whore who tempted Jon to her bed and rewarded him with unearned riches—doubly insulting due to his bastard status. Dissent amongst her men would be disastrous at this stage. Now, poised to end the war and take King’s Landing come spring, she needed her men unified behind her, stubborn Westerosi lords included.  

A knot rose in her throat. The thought of losing him terrified her. Daenerys paced the room in quick turns. When Jon held her, the world fell away and she was only the woman who loved him. She couldn’t lose Jon. If he was made Jon Stark, heir to the North if his brother remained childless, would be a prize for any Westerosi lady . . .

A loud rap on the door interrupted her winding thoughts. Daenerys straightened her spine, composing herself.

“Come in,” she said, grateful for the distraction. Her Hand poked his head in.

“Your Grace, may I have a word with you?”

“Of course,” she said, waving a hand toward the table by the fire.

Tyrion shuffled to the table, pausing to pour wine for the both of them. His gold Hand’s badge flashed in the firelight, brilliant against his somber black tunic. The wine indicated he meant to stay for some time, though he was without his ubiquitous sheaf of papers meaning the visit was to discussing important matters. She and the small council had convened for most of the morning regarding issues the needed addressing.

“Is there something we missed, Lord Tyrion?” she asked, sipping her summerwine with some amusement as Tyrion drained one glass and poured another.

“No, Your Grace,” he said, with a faint grimace, “my discussion is regarding a . . . delicate matter.” Daenerys’ grip tightened on her glass.

“Oh?” she said with an arched brow, “what delicate matter?”

She readied herself for another lecture regarding Jon, or the proposed mission to King’s Landing. Ravens with cyphered messages now flew to the garrison of Harrenhal where Robb Stark was wintering to discuss options. Ser Barristan suggested sending a splinter force from the Harrenhal and Riverrun garrisons to provoke the remaining Crownland forces. It could work to empty King’s Landing of the lion’s share of its fighting men, leaving only overworked goldcloaks to patrol the teeming city. The Order of Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things—Tyrion’s spy network—would take it from there.

“From what I hear, the dragons took to Ser Snow.”

“Yes,” she said, deliberately vague as she eyed her Hand. What was he up to? He looked well, the black tunic with red embroidery along the neckline and cuffs flattered his fair coloring. Not for the first time, he was bereft of japes, instead sober-eyed and serious across the table. Tension tied her gut in knots.

“Why do you think that is?” Tyrion asked. Daenerys’ scowl deepened.

“Excuse me?” “Why do you think Jon has an affinity for your dragons?”

Daenerys took a sip, letting the warm sweetness comfort her for a moment. It was a question she’d pondered herself at some length, but with no clear answers.

“Jon is dear to me. My sons can sense that.” It was as reasonable answer as any. Tyrion fidgeted, toying with the edge of the map laid on the table. 

“Did the sellsword Daario share this affinity?” Daenerys narrowed her eyes at her Hand. _What are you playing at?_

“No,” she said, truculent. The key difference was that she had not loved Daario. But it was none of Tyrion’s business to question the depth of connection between her and Jon.

“Get to the point, Lord Hand.” Tyrion looked as if he’d rather swallow a knife. Generous mouth twisted in a frown, he coughed.

“Has J—Has Ser Snow ever mentioned his mother to you?”

Biting back a low sound of frustration, Daenerys said: “No, Lord Stark would not speak of it. He died before Jon could ask. _Why_?” There was something lurking behind the words, something cold. Something dangerous. Enough to stifle the loquacious Tyrion into monosyllables.      

“Never in all of my rather learned research of your family dynasty and Old Valyria have I ever heard of anyone _without_ Valyrian blood riding a dragon.” Daenerys chuffed out a relieved laugh.

“Is that all? You think Jon has Valyrian ancestry? His mother could be anyone . . .  a Velaryon trollop or even a Baratheon by-blow. What does it matter?” Tyrion remained stone-faced.

“There’s more?” she asked.

“When Lord Eddard Stark rode north after Robert’s Rebellion, he took with him a bastard son--”

“Yes, Jon. No one contests his blood status. What of it?”

“Lord Stark also took with him the body of his sister, Lyanna.”

The pence dropped, almost with an audible _ping_ in Daenerys’ head. _Gods. Gods!_ Her fists curled on the edge of the table, so hard her nails dug into her palms in angry red crescents.

“Wait. Wait, so you’re suggesting that my brother Rhaegar was--”

“Yes, Your Grace. Think about it. Lord Stark was a man of unshakable, inflexible honor—it’s what killed him. After all you’ve heard of his character, does he sound like the sort of man to sire a bastard on the warpath—especially when he left a wife with child at Riverrun? Jon has the look of the Starks, but Rhaegal allowed him to not only touch him, but to _ride_. Has anyone laid a hand on your children since they reached their adult size? No man who ever lived bonded with a dragon without Valyrian blood in their veins.”

Laid out thus, Daenerys could follow the logic. But inwardly, her heart lurched with both joy and terrible pain. If it was true, then it would mean Jon was her kin, her nephew by blood. A tame match by Targaryen standards. But that would also mean her beloved Jon was a product of rape. Lyanna, a proud woman of the North, would have despised the son growing inside her, proof of her abuse at the hands of Rhaegar. _I am born of a family of monsters._     

“What proof do you have?” She congratulated herself on the cool, even tone. Tyrion gave her a helpless shrug.

“How could we authenticate it? Ned Stark took this secret to his grave, along with his contemporaries. But I don’t see any other possibility to explain away these . . . quirks.”

“We have no proof. You will not bring your suppositions to him. Under any circumstance.” _It would break his heart._

“As you wish, Your Grace. I thought you should know,” he said, tugging down the hem of his tunic as he stood.

“Thank you, Lord Hand. Dismissed.” Tyrion’s parting bow was perfunctory.

Left in silence, Daenerys looked into the flames. She stared as Lady Melisandre had urged her to, searching for shapes, glimpses of truth. And found none. Daenerys blinked away the tears that gathered at the corners of her eyes. Her Jon, her knight, loved his family more than anything, and was fiercely loyal to Eddard Stark’s memory. To learn that his beloved siblings may in fact be his cousins, that he had built his life on a lie . . . it would devastate him. Daenerys jumped to her feet, feeling restless and cross. Another crisp rap at the door startled her.

“Come in,” she said. Ghost trotted in, nudging her fingers with his cold nose. Daenerys buried her hands in the soft, thick warmth of Ghost’s fur, soothed by his bulk. Jon followed, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. Jon raked a hand through his wind-tousled curls.

“I’m sorry about Talen. His cousin Jory was one of father’s trusted guards—and Talen’s a decent hand with a sword, but young still. Young and impressionable. He says whatever fool thing comes into his head—are you all right?” Jon’s face creased in a frown upon seeing at her face. Daenerys rearranged her stricken expression. She cleared her throat.

“I’m fine.” And she was. Tyrion’s words hadn’t touched the precious center of her love for Jon. It shone on, untarnished. Jon embraced her, smelling of woodsmoke and cold.

“If you ask most any other man in my company, especially those who rode with us to Lannisport, they would say I am lucky to have a woman like you to love me.” Daenerys relaxed into the strength and solidness of him. There it was, that strong, even beat of his heart. Nothing mattered but this. Jon Snow was more than her lover, he was a dragonrider in his own right, and named her second should she fall in battle.

“Is that so? No mention of the queen or the dragons? Just a good, honest woman who loves you?” she teased. Jon grinned, shrugging.

“Men of the North honor strength of character, not name alone. You’ve impressed them,” he said. Daenerys rose on tiptoe to taste his smile. His cold skin warmed to hers, sweet and familiar. Mm, she loved when he angled his chin to deepen the kiss, the scrape of his beard on her chin, the magic of his lips and tongue.

“Let them talk. You’re mine,” she said when they broke apart, both roused and panting. Sable eyes deep enough to drown in, Jon held her tight.

“Aye. I’m yours, and you’re mine,” he said, an echo of marriage vows in the light of the Seven. Daenerys fisted her hands in his cloak, possessed by a desire to ravish him, stake her claim. Another rap at the door interrupted her. Pressing her forehead against his chest, she exhaled an irritated breath.

“Come _in_ ,” she snapped. Storm-Son opened the door to admit Missandei. Her amber-brown eyes flickered between her and Jon.

“My apologies, Your Grace. There is a rider at the gate who insists she speak with you.”

Daenerys heaved a sigh, fastening her cloak. Gently, she reached out to her children, finding Rhaegal and Drogon dozing in their overhangs. Viserion turned toward her questing touch. She got the impression of the ocean and tasty fish. He felt the spike of her distress, and she pushed a feeling of calm.

“Ghost, with me,” Jon said. The direwolf padded at Daenerys’ elbow, reflecting Jon’s protective, watchful energy. Missandei led them along with Storm-Son and Rakharo down the winding halls.

“Has she identified herself? Perhaps it’s the Lady Melisandre. She was due to arrive any day,” Daenerys asked.

“She has not said so, Your Grace.”

“Is she alone?” Jon said.

“There is a group of about half a dozen. The Dothraki scouts had nothing to report this morning,” Missandei said.

“Have the small council been notified?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Runners have been sent to Lord Tyrion’s rooms. Sers Barristan and Jorah are on the rampart at the Lion’s Mouth.”

Daenerys kept her expression composed as they hurried down the stair to the great hall. It was a far cry from the sad ruin they found upon arriving to Casterly Rock. Fresh rushes strewn with sweet-smelling herbs, long square tables where her army gathered to eat and talk and dice. Her Targaryen banner hung from the rafters, along with Jon’s white wolf, the Unsullied’s three black spears above a broken chain, and the Dothraki’s golden horse. Men and women milled about, though none looked unduly alarmed, which reassured her.

Daenerys wished she’d thought to at add jewelry. The sharp-shouldered tunic and trousers were serviceable, but lacked the ornamentation that said ‘queen.’ The wind was a sharp, cold gust as the bailey doors opened. A few flurries of snow fluttered in the air. Dothraki archers lined the upper unadorned rampart above the Lion’s Mouth, carved lions snarling below on either side of the gate. Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah fairly glowed in the torchlight, clad in their armor.

“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said with a nod.

“Ser Jorah. Has they made any demands?” she asked.

“Just to speak with you, Your Grace. They flew a white flag of truce, but bear no banner. Have a care,” Ser Barristan said. Daenerys patted the old knight’s armored forearm.

“I am quite safe among so many warriors.”

She made her way along the rampart, Jon and Ghost at her heels.

“How goes it, Bakhaqqo?” she asked in Dothraki.

The burly Dothraki captain glanced up at her from the sight of his arrow. His braid hung to his elbow, with three silver bells. An _arakh_ has sliced a deep scar over his left eye—that eye was milky blue and blind. Still, he shot an arrow better than most full-sighted men she knew.

“Six fleas, khaleesi. All mounted. If they come with gifts, they insult you. If they come for war, they insult you even worse. It will be my joy to kill them for you,” he said, the gold roundels in his mustache gleaming in the torchlight.

“I have no doubt of it. Which one has words for me?”

“Third one from the left, nearest to the gate. I have her in my sight. I’ll put an arrow through her eye if she so much as belches,” Bakhaqqo said. Daenerys smiled at him.

“Let us hear her words, first.”

Turning to Jon, she beckoned him with a tilt of chin. The two of them clattered down the guard stair to the gate itself. A massive thing of thick, years-scarred ironwood, there was a small window to peek through. Aggo had gathered a legion of Unsullied and Dothraki, standing ready at the gate. As Daenerys approached the gate, she frowned. The window was too tall for her to look through.

“I’ll give you a boost,” Jon whispered, biting back a smile.

“Don’t you dare laugh at your queen, Jon Snow,” she said with a flashing glare. Jon laid a hand over his heart.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Kneeling, he wove his fingers together into a stirrup for her to step up in. Jon lifted and Daenerys tried not to swoon at his rock-steady strength. She shoved the window open.

“Who wishes to speak with Daenerys Targaryen?” she said, in a tone that struck a fine balance between bored and commanding.

“I apologize for the abrupt arrival, Your Grace. I ran into a couple of your allies along the way, as well.” Daenerys blinked.

“Lady Melisandre. Welcome to Casterly Rock. The night is dark and full of terrors.”             

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to nonomo's excellent story Revelations for the idea of Tyrion piecing things together. Read it. It's awesome.


	21. Part XXI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The small council convenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy your chapter a little earlier! I'll post this also on tumblr.

Part XXI

 

“Why did you not send a raven, my lady?” Ser Jorah asked.

“I decided speed was more important. There is much to discuss,” Lady Melisandre said. To Daenerys’ eyes, she looked worn, almost _older_. Was that threads of white in her fiery hair?

As Ser Jorah began to speak up, Daenerys held up her hand. The bailey was crowded now, with men and women of her company jostling to get the best view of the proceedings. She could feel the press of curious eyes and the strain of listening ears.

“We will discuss this in the council chambers,” she said, crisp and cool.   

Among their number stood an impossibly tall young man with black hair, two men who were apparently captives given their bonds, and Brienne of Tarth, a hood worn over her head to cover her distinctive hair. Taken together, they made a strange sight.

“Lady Brienne, Lady Melisandre, I’m sure you are exhausted from your journey. Allow my ladies to find you rooms--”

“I am here as a representative for the King in the North, Robb Stark, my lady. I would impart his messages before retiring, if it pleases you,” Brienne said, with her usual stiff formality.

“I will await you, Your Grace. We have much discuss,” Lady Melisandre said with a curtsey, her ruby pulsing weakly in the wavering light.

Missandei caught her eye as they settled in the council chamber, a warm, spacious room adjoining the great hall. There was a question in her soft gaze. Daenerys squeezed Missandei’s forearm gently. Servants circulated with fingerbowls of hot water to wash with, more with trays of fresh bread, bacon and soft cheese. The roaring fire made the room a trifle too warm, made more so with her chair settled so close. One by one, her small council filtered in, including her Dothraki and Unsullied captains. Jon stood with his arms folded, leaning against the wall. She caught his eye and he gave her a reassuring nod.

“Ser Snow, would you like to sit? There is an empty seat here,” Daenerys said, with a careless wave to the empty chair at her right. Jon blinked, dark eyes darting around the room. A glance to her small council saw varying expressions of indifference and distaste. _Get used to it._

“Yes, Your Grace. Thank you,” he said, settling Longclaw as he took the seat beside her.

“Brienne, you said you carry a message from Robb Stark, my Warden of the North?” Daenerys said, folding her hands on the table in front of her.

Brienne, for her part, seemed unmoved by the byplay, though that didn’t make Daenerys think for a moment she wouldn’t report it to Robb Stark. Clad in her ubiquitous dark armor, Brienne finished combing back her damp blond hair with fastidious care. The older woman looked exhausted, with a greyish caste to her face. No doubt she’d ridden her mount nearly to death to reach Casterly Rock so quickly.

“I do. I carry a missive for Ser Snow, and another for yourself,” she said, pulling two rolled scrolls from her pocket. Daenerys frowned as she accepted the missive.

“Is there some information that Lord Stark did not trust to a raven?” she asked.

“Not to my knowledge, my la—Your Grace. He sent me as part of your original agreement to see Ser Snow’s welfare with my own eyes.”

“Really, Lady Brienne? Stark saw with his own eyes how Snow was treated when we feasted a Riverrun,” Tyrion said.

“He also made me memorize a detailed account of the victories won in the Crownlands and reports from the garrisons of Harrenhal, Dragonstone, Maidenpool, Riverrun, and the Twins,” Brienne said with a slight, thin-lipped smile that revealed a glimpse of even white teeth. Daenerys snorted.

“Say on, then.”

It was a thorough assessment, including troop censuses, supply tallies, and a narrative of activity at each garrison. Stokeworth Castle had mustered a ransom for Lord Stokeworth, numbering at one hundred and five gold dragons. Robb requested the knight be traded for the agreed upon price. The money would be useful in purchasing winter supplies from across the Narrow Sea if grain ran out.

“Fine, ransom him,” Daenerys said with a distracted wave, breaking the grey wax seal of Robb’s letter with her thumbnail. An object rolled from within the scroll and landed in her lap. Daenerys tucked the object, a ring, judging by its weight, into her pocket. Setting the scroll aside, Daenerys listened to Brienne’s report.

Maidenpool’s Lord Mooton sent a letter of fealty to Daenerys, sealed with a wax signature of each of his own bannermen as well. Riverrun’s Lord Edmure Tully boasted of his victories against the hill tribesmen, stating he had eradicated their ‘pestilence’ from his lands evermore. No word from the ironborn or Asha Greyjoy, though the _Black Wind_ had been spotted sailing north of the Shield Islands. Since the Lannisport fire, Tyrion’s agents sailed for Pyke to request clarification on the message Daenerys had received about the Reach’s gold and grain.

Daenerys applauded as Brienne finished, brimming with excitement. The noose was tightening around her enemies. Cersei now ruled only two of the Seven Kingdoms, if one was generous. The pretender’s plan to discredit her with the Lannisport fire had failed, and he ruled no lands with any certainty.

“Excellent. Thank you, Brienne, for your report and your tireless service. Missandei will see you to your rooms,” Daenerys said. Brienne gave a stiff bow and followed Missandei out, ducking under the lintel as she did so.

“Such a steely woman,” Tyrion said as the door shut behind them both.

“A loyal one too. An ally with strength and loyalty both is worth her weight in gold,” Ser Barristan said.

“She’d fit right in on Bear Island,” Ser Jorah said with a wry grin.

Daenerys plucked a chunk of warm bread from the tray, smearing it with soft cheese. As she chewed, Jon snagged the wine carafe and poured for the both of them. 

“Thank you,” she said, feeling a delightful frisson of excitement at the press of his knee beneath the table. Jon gave her a bashful half-smile. Daenerys blinked, realizing the room had fallen silent. Clearing her throat, Daenerys motioned to Lady Melisandre.

“Lady Melisandre. Lord Tyrion’s spies have brought only tidbits of news of the Stormlands. Were you able to track down the Targaryen pretender?” The red woman rose, smoothing the snarled brown homespun she wore. Daenerys frowned, disconcerted by her overall dishevelment. Even half-delirious with thirst in the Red Waste, Melisandre had always been fastidious.

“Yes, Your Grace. I rode as you commanded to the Stormlands. With the men you gave me, we made our way to Griffin’s Roost. I was able to gauge his armies. This Aegon has the Golden Company, the Second Sons, the Stormbreakers--”

“Sellsword swine,” Ser Jorah spat.

“He also has Volantene war elephants, trebuchets, siege weapons, ballistae. I took tallies, and the men sabotaged what they could discreetly. We were disguised as smallfolk, and were allowed into the castle bailey without comment. That night, I beseeched the Lord for his help. My thought was to birth a servant of shadow to attack Lord Connington . . .” Jon gave her a puzzled look. Daenerys shook her head. Lady Melisandre’s powers were strange and foreign—of mysterious Asshai. It made her stomach turn if she pondered it too long.

“Feel free to keep to the salient points, my lady,” Lord Tyrion said. A flash of emotion darted across the red woman’s face, but quickly faded behind urbane mask. Daenerys watched the ruby at her throat. It pulsed with a hard red glow, like a heartbeat.

“Yes. The Lord gave me a vision of fire,”—the ruby took on a malignant throb— “A cleansing fire to spread across the diseased Stormlands. It was a simple thing to set it alight. It was a sight that would bring the Lord of Light glory, Your Grace. Those shining siege engines were burned to ash, panicked elephants trampled their handlers, sellsword tents lay shattered.”

“Excellent,” Ser Barristan said, “no doubt it sowed discord amongst the lords supporting the pretender.”

“From what I saw in my weeks sowing havoc across the Stormlands, the sellswords grow restless. No man wants to die for nothing, no matter how good the coin is. We crossed paths with many deserters.”

“Are those the men you brought with you?” Daenerys asked. Something of her catlike smile touched her lips.

“Not sellswords, Your Grace. Captives. A Baratheon bastard I found at Storm’s End. I could smell the king’s blood in him. He could be valuable. A highborn boy from the Reach, and--” A pregnant pause. Daenerys nearly rolled her eyes. Theatrics were part of Lady Melisandre’s personality, as surely as her red hair.

“The pretender’s own sworn sword, a commander who taught him the sword.”

“Rolly Duckfield?” Ser Barristan said. At Melisandre’s nod, Daenerys heard Ser Jorah curse.

“Should I know this man?” she asked, with some sharpness.

“He is a brute, Your Grace. The son of a blacksmith who got in a tussle with the lord’s son. Broke the lad’s arms and several ribs. He dodged the headsman by fleeing to Essos,” Ser Jorah said.

“If I remember right, Ser Jorah, my lord father wanted _your_ head for selling slaves,” Jon said, his voice calm and even. Daenerys hid a grin. It was another quality of Jon’s she admired: his willingness to hear the other side of the argument, to view both parties fairly.

“Aye, that’s true,” Ser Jorah said.

“Was this Duckfield provoked to such violence?” Daenerys asked. Ser Jorah scrubbed his stubbled chin.

“In a manner. Duckfield’s father crafted him a longsword for his nameday. The lord’s son claimed the sword for his own,” he said.

“Hmm,” Daenerys said with a raised brow, “and the pretender knighted him?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Melisandre said. _He could be useful. If not for ransom, then possibly for information._

“Who was the other? A highborn boy from the Reach?” Daenerys asked. Melisandre’s shrug was careless.

“Dickon Tarly. His father Randyll declared for Cersei Lannister. He cast a slur on your name at a tavern. The men took exception.” Beside her, tension shivered through Jon. Daenerys gave him a questioning glance.

“Tarly, you said? Of Horn Hall?” he asked.

“Yes, Jon Snow,” Melisandre said.

“ _Ser_ Snow. Jon was knighted at Riverrun, my lady,” Daenerys corrected.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” she said. Daenerys felt a chill at the speculative gleam in the red woman’s eyes when they looked at Jon.

“I had a brother in the Night’s Watch, Samwell Tarly. He is a great friend to me. Dickon must be his brother,” Jon said. Daenerys could not interpret his solemn expression. Regret? Sorrow?

The conversation turned toward what else Melisandre had learned on reconnaissance, specifics of soldier movements, estimated supply lines, allied houses. 

“May I have a word with you in private, Your Grace? I have seen more in the flames.” Daenerys rose, settling the drape of her tunic with a shrug.

“Very well. Dismissed,” she said. There was some coughing and shuffling as her small council filtered out of the room. Jon stood, adjusting Longclaw. It was on her tongue to invite him to stay. As her second, it was his right.

“I think I’ll read Robb’s latest scolding and see if Lord Tarly would care to talk,” Jon said, taking her hand to press a parting kiss to the back. Her heart melted a little.

The door closed with a soft thump, leaving her alone with the red woman. They regarded each other in silence, broken only the music of the fire, an element they shared an affinity for. Theirs had always been a contentious relationship. Her experiences with Mirri Maz Dur had left a bitter taste in her mouth regarding witches and sorcery. No depth of feeling lay between them, merely aligned aspirations. Daenerys drained her glass of summerwine with deliberate nonchalance. 

“I’ve had some success decoding your visions, my lady.” One dark red brow rose.

“Yes? What have you learned?”

“The mummer’s dragon is the pretender. He is no true Targaryen,” she said, ticking off the points on her fingers, “I suspect the white wolf with a man’s eyes to be Brandon Stark. He is said to be some sort of seer. To what end he will be useful, I don’t know. According to my Hand, he was last seen North of the Wall. The green flames were a warning of the wildfire in King’s Landing that destroyed the Sept of Baelor. As to the banner, I hoped you had more visions.”

Melisandre nodded, muttering some words in Valyrian under her breath in prayer. When she raised her head, her gaze was direct and piercing.

“From what I have seen in the nightfire, your guesses seem plausible, Your Grace. Have you given any thought to what the blue rose in the ice wall would be?”

She did. Daenerys suspected it meant Jon as a former member of the Night’s Watch, but she disliked the attention Melisandre had given him.

“No,” she lied. Dishonesty did not come naturally to her, so her lies had to be rehearsed, especially in present company. Melisandre sank gracefully into a chair by the fire, adjusting her skirts in neat folds.

“I told you the Baratheon bastard had king’s blood. The Lord has given me the ability to sense people who might important to his plan. I think Jon Snow is one of those.”

Daenerys folded her arms over her chest.

“Rhaegal allowed Jon to ride him.” She could count on one hand how many times she’d seen Melisandre shocked. This would mark the fifth time. Her eyes flew wide, cup poised midair.

“A--Another dragonrider?”

“Yes. He has been named my second.”

“And your lover,” Melisandre said. Daenerys narrowed her eyes.

“It is none of your business, but yes,” she said, pacing the room in quick turns.

Silence reigned between them. Daenerys felt something unfurl and snarl inside her at the thought of Melisandre sinking her claws into Jon. The other woman used more than fire magic to accomplish her ends. Melisandre gaze wandered to the shifting flames, eyes gone wide and glassy. Daenerys stared into the fire until her eyes burned, seeing nothing.

“What do you see?” she snapped.

“Battle above the Blackwater. Battle with three gods of fire overhead. A dog with a rose in its teeth. A grave . . . with blue roses upon the stone. A . . . a scroll? An open raven scroll . . .” Melisandre blinked.

“I will beseech the Lord and inform you if he reveals anything else.” Daenerys released a long breath, disquieted by the thought of death looming.

“Thank you, my lady. You may go,” she said.

 

In the lord’s rooms Daenerys unwound her braids, carefully brushing her hair until it hung in sleek silver curtain. Remembering Stark’s letter and gift, she riffled in her pocket and found the ring. It was a heavy silver thing, etched with the image of a direwolf, faded smooth at the edges from long wear. Crowning the ring was a cabochon sapphire the size of the tip of her thumb, the deep murky blue of the sea. She scanned the letter. Couched in pleasantry and after considerable rambling regarding potential strategy, her eyes fell to the last paragraph.

 

_‘To my Queen, Daenerys,_

_I must confess an omission. As you know, men of the North are forthright by nature. But as any wise monarch on this continent knows, it pays to have information. I commissioned Ser Talhart to send me raven scrolls, not to sell secrets, but to know how Jon is faring. At Riverrun, I knew Jon cared for you. Now I know you care for him as well. Jon deserves every happiness and I wish you both well. Enclosed is a ring that once belonged to my father. I hope you wear it in good health. Speak with Jon regarding his letter, there is something else you both must discuss, especially regarding our previous letters._

_Robb Stark, Warden of the North’_

“Sneaking runt,” she said, hiding a smile. _I should have known they were wilier than they let on. No one stays alive for long without being so._ Stark had not broken faith either, it was only after Jon was knighted at Riverrun that Ser Talhart rode with them. Daenerys closed her fist over the ring, clearly a Stark heirloom, and cherished since it belonged to Ned Stark.

She looked up as the door opened to find Jon panting and wild-eyed. Daenerys leapt to her feet.

“Are you all right?” she asked, sharp with concern. Jon’s sable eyes shone. Wordless, he yanked her close for a brief, thorough kiss. Daenerys tugged on a lock of his hair in reproof.

“What _is_ it?”

“Have you read Robb’s letter?”

“Just finished. Apparently your Ser Talhart has been a spy for your brother to see how you fare amongst the Targaryen girl’s savages,” she said dryly. Daenerys opened her curled fingers to show him the ring.

“He gave me this along with his blessing.” A muscle fired in Jon’s jaw as he cradled the ring in his palm.

“This was Father’s,” he said, his thumb rubbing the etched direwolf. Daenerys stepped away with a sound of frustration.

“Ser Snow, as your queen, I command you to tell me what’s going on,” Daenerys said, voice ringing with severity. Jon beamed, brandishing her Robb’s letter.

“He . . . He petitioned to make me a Stark. With your seal, I will be Ser Jon Stark of Winterfell.” Daenerys blinked, a startled smile stretching her lips.

“Your brother beat me by a thin margin. As my second and a trusted knight, it is only fitting you bear your family name. Does that . . . are you happy?” she asked. Jon caught her up, spinning her in a dizzy circle. Daenerys laughed, all thought of graves and death banished from her mind.

“Yes! Of course I’m happy! It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Just like you. All I want is a home, a family,” he said, nearly quivering with excitement.

Daenerys took the parchment and marched to the writing table. A patter of crimson wax, then the press of her dragon seal alongside Stark’s grey snarling direwolf. _The union of dragon and wolf._ The thought lingering unpleasantly in her head, remembering Tyrion’s suspicion of Jon’s heritage. If he was right, then Jon was neither Stark nor Snow, but a Sand.

“I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, so name you Ser Jon of House Stark,” she said, her formal tone ruined by Jon’s dark eyes, swimming with naked love.

Jon leapt for her, his momentum pushing them back against the wall. _Yes, Jon. My Jon_. His mouth was hot and eager, nibbling at her lower lip with tender skill. Daenerys hummed into his mouth, fingers flexing around handfuls of his tunic. A simple kiss and she felt molten and wild, craving his heat and touch like a drug. Daenerys reached for the laces of his trousers.

“W—Wait, wait love. We have to talk,” Jon said, breaking away panting.

“Whatever it is, it can wait. Come here,” she said, dragging him down for another kiss, tongue probing his mouth. Mm, he tasted of the mint leaves he chewed after supper. She craved that sweet-sharp burn of pleasure.

“No, my love. This is important,” he said, pressing soft kisses to her cheeks and forehead. Daenerys dragged in a deep breath and released it slowly. Jon really was too handsome for his own good. Blue highlights glinted in his windblown black curls. The soft glow of the fire lovingly kissed his pale skin.

“Fine. What is it?” she said.

“I will ride for King’s Landing once the party is ready,” Jon said. Daenerys flinched as if struck. Clenching her jaw, she shook her head, dismissing his words with a sharp gesture.

“Absolutely not. It made a sort of sense before, but no longer. You are my second, heir to Robb if he remains childless, you’re a dragonrider, a _Stark_. You cannot go.” _You’re mine and I cannot bear to let you leave me._

“One of my sisters is trapped in King’s Landing.”  

Daenerys saw in the set of his jaw, the tilt of his shoulders where he stood backlit by the fire that he was deadly serious, firm in his decision.

“How do you know?” “Robb said that--”

“Intelligence like that can be forged, faked! Cersei would have sent her head if she had custody of a girl of Stark blood--”

“Love, no. _Listen_ ,” he said.

“You keep calling me ‘love,’” Daenerys said, turning her back to him, fighting a sudden rush of tears. His tenderness always undid her, as did the terror of losing him. She heard the muted thump of his step. Strong arms tugged her back into a warm embrace, an air-soft kiss pressed to her temple. 

“You are my love. My heart. I have a name now. And I feel just a bit more worthy of you,” he said, voice low and hoarse in her ear. Daenerys choked back the tears clogging her throat.

“Robb said the letter spoke of a summer day when all of us were together as children. The septa took us to the lake for lessons. She fell asleep. We ran off and spent the afternoon playing in the water. Bran climbed the rocks, Sansa found pretty pebbles for each of us. Robb, Arya and I wrestled in the shallows. No one knew but us. No one was there but us. It has to be Sansa or Arya.” Daenerys dragged in a calming breath. She was a queen, damn it. She could think of this rationally.

“Where did this information come from?”

“Robb received a raven scroll. It was not in Sansa or Arya’s hand, but the writer says he knows where she is and wishes to help.” Twisting in his embrace, she stared up into his beloved face, golden firelight and shadow warring for supremacy on his features.

“It could be a trap. They could have tortured her for the information to lure you to King’s Landing!” she said. Jon scowled.

“That is possible. But I have to find out.” Damn him, her strong, brave idiot of a man. It was his nature to protect his people despite the cost to himself.

“Why can’t Robb send someone? Wh--” Daenerys broke off, “That’s why Brienne is here, isn’t it? Catelyn Stark’s sworn sword, who took a sacred vow to bring her daughters home.”

“Yes,” Jon said. Daenerys scowled.

“What if I forbid you to go?” she said, the quaver in her voice betraying her. Jon mustered a wan smile.

“You won’t.”

Daenerys shrugged out of his embrace, turning toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Jon asked.

“If you’re determined to go on this mission, Stark, then I’m going to go over every possible contingency.”

“Send runner for Lady Brienne and Ser Barristan.”       

     

         

 


	22. Part XXII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany contemplates her choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut.

Part XXII

 

“We received a raven scroll from my men at Pyke. Asha Greyjoy will arrive in the morning. Barges will follow with the spoils of Highgarden, safe and sound,” Tyrion said.

Daenerys nodded without taking her gaze from the bailey below, feeling a cold lurch in her belly. Brienne, Jon, and Kovarro sparred in the bailey, armed with blunted training weapons. Despite the chill, Jon was stripped to the waist. Muscle flexed like oiled rope beneath white skin with each twist and step. As comely as he was, Daenerys was equally attracted to the deadly efficiency of his movements. Jon didn’t have Kovarro’s flash, or Brienne’s utilitarian flexibility, but he was smart, competent, and utterly relentless. His prowess was a comfort to her.

No matter how they argued and debated, Jon was obstinate. If another of Robb’s men made the journey to King’s Landing, the mysterious ally could get spooked, and flee. It had to be Jon, as he insisted. Ser Talhart would lead the saboteurs in the city, meanwhile Asha would stage an attack on the port of Blackwater Bay with the aid of her garrison at Dragonstone. Robb’s land forces would be nearby for support. He would be protected in every way she could manage, save for her flying in on Drogon.

“He will be fine, Your Grace. If anyone can find the Stark girls, it will be him. Starks are hard to kill.” The wind was calm today, a distant afternoon sun shining weakly from a cloudless blue sky.

“Not from lack of trying,” Daenerys said with a narrow glance, “Jon volunteered for this, but don’t think for a moment I haven’t forgotten your ‘plan.’ Conspire to harm Jon again . . .” Daenerys let the sentence hang, watching the color drain from Tyrion’s face.

“Understood, Your Grace,” he said, leaving her alone on the balcony overlooking the bailey.

“You slip like a fish from guard, Snow!” Kovarro said, with an artful twist of his _arakh_.

“You should learn respect. Jon is now a knight of House Stark,” Brienne said, parrying Kovarro’s blow one-handed. Kovarro shrugged his braid over his shoulder.

“A dothrakaan respects strength alone, O Greatsteel. As with the khaleesi, you have proven strength. You also have the same pale hair. Snow of the Wolf Tent is a friend of my khalasar.” Jon interrupted both of them by disarming Brienne with a twist of one wrist and ramming Kovarro with his shoulder. Both ended up on their knees.

“Both of you talk too much!” Jon said. Kovarro and Jon laughed, even Brienne was smiling. A wet nudge at her hand distracted her. Ghost’s red eyes regarded her with something like understanding.

“Hello, Ghost,” Daenerys said softly, petting his ruff, “you’re going to miss him too, hmm?”

The grey depression that settled over her made her want to hurl herself into a problem, lose herself in its intricacies. Unfortunately, the morning had been spent resolving what few issues there were. By now, her camp was very efficient. The size of Casterly Rock meant most of her men were able to winter in the castle, and those that were in still tents would rotate within the castle as the temperatures dropped. Her children were out hunting, so flying was another distraction barred to her.

Daenerys reentered the keep, Ghost padding at her side. Her Queensguard knights followed her in clanking silence. The men and women working and playing within the great hall each stopped to bow, with a murmured ‘Your Grace,’ ‘ _Mhysa_ ,’ or ‘ _Khaleesi_.’ She made sure she returned their respect with a nod or smile, but her worries were turned northward, toward the Iron Islands. She wandered through the halls, pausing at a prominent oil painting. The woman had flowing golden hair, woven in braids with pearls and rubies. Green eyes looked out, direct and guileless. Her face was delicate through the brow and nose, though there was a hint of hardness in the set of her thin-lipped smile.

“Who is this, Ser Barristan?” she asked. Ser Barristan doffed his helm and combed his fingers through thin white hair.

“That is Lady Joanna Lannister, Lord Tyrion’s mother. She died giving birth to him,” he said. Daenerys nodded, remembering Tyrion had told her so. It was a tragedy they shared. Cersei blamed Tyrion for her mother’s death, and was particularly venomous in her hatred as a result.

“She is very lovely. Is it a true likeness?” Daenerys asked.

“It is. She a beautiful woman. I met her once before she . . . er before she left court,” Ser Jorah said. There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Daenerys peered into Ser Jorah’s conflicted blue eyes.

“What happened?”

“Nothing, Your Grace. Crude rumors,” Ser Barristan said. Her heart felt heavy, looking at the lovely woman in the portrait.

“My father raped her, didn’t he?”

“No. Your mother Queen Rhaella dismissed her from court. There were some rumors that Aerys lusted after her. But Tywin Lannister is not a man to marry a sullied woman,” Ser Barristan said. Daenerys let that insensitive comment slide, if Joanna was a sullied woman, then so was she. Her wedding night with Drogo had been rape. Aerys had been as Viserys grew to be, though Aerys had the strength and means to carry out his threats. Her mother had been chained to such a man until she died giving birth to Daenerys herself.

“I wonder if there are portraits of my mother. I’m sure the Usurper had them burned. I hear she was also a very beautiful woman,” Daenerys said.  

“She was, Your Grace. She looked very much like you. Perhaps a bit narrower frame, a bit taller. But the face, the face was just the same,” Ser Barristan said, laying a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you, Ser,” Daenerys said with a thin smile. Daenerys climbed the rest of the stair and down the hall to the lord’s chamber. Ghost kept pace with ease, his bulk a warm press against her side.     

“I see why Jon named you ‘Ghost,’ you’re quiet as a shadow,” Daenerys said, tracing the silky fur of his pointed ears.

“I think I will rest awhile, Sers. Thank you,” Daenerys said, as she entered the lord’s chamber.

“As you say, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah said with a salute. Daenerys closed the door with a quiet thump.

The room stood empty, though Missandei and her ladies left the fire and brazier banked. It took only a couple moments of stoking to coax a crackling blaze. Dusting ash from her hands, Daenerys surveyed the room. Ghost took up the stretch of carpet before the fire. At her questioning glance, his tail thumped the carpet twice. The table was littered with raven scrolls, maps, and records. _A queen and a bookkeeper._

Daenerys threw open the doors of the balcony, letting the cold sea air wash over her. The sunlight shimmered and danced on the water’s surface and she watched the waves break on the rocks, mesmerized.   

“Beautiful day,” Jon’s voice broke her reverie. Daenerys glanced at him, flushed from exercise, limbs loose and relaxed. Gods she loved him so much it hurt. Daenerys clenched her fists at her sides to keep from rubbing the aching spot in her chest. The wind would howl through her come morning when he sailed away.

“Tyrion found you, didn’t he? Asha will be here tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Daenerys said, staring into the horizon, quivering with leashed emotion.

“Come here, love,” Jon whispered. Daenerys stiffened as his arms encircled her from behind, fighting the rising tide of resentment and grief and terrible love. Breath came in sharp pants as she fought tears, fingernails digging into his hands.

“Come here to me, my love, my Dany. Queen of Love and Beauty,” Jon whispered, kissing the back of her neck, behind her ear. Daenerys broke his grip, whirling around to face him.

“You will run if this contact of yours proves false. You will _run_ , promise me,” she said, drilling her finger into his chest for emphasis.

“I promise.”

“Send a raven with your location and the words ‘ _Valar Morghulis’_ if you need me. Drogon and I will come, wherever you are. Say it.”

“ _Valar Morghulis_.”

“Good,” Daenerys said, nodding. Jon followed her inside, shutting the balcony doors. He shrugged off his hastily donned tunic.

“I’m going to take you to bed. Let me _show_ you how much I love you,” he growled. Daenerys sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Come and take me then,” she said, with a challenging tilt of chin. Jon’s grin was wicked; he made quick work of his sword belt, boots and trousers. Maester Jaron had removed the stitches to the gash at his side, it slashed down his ribs in an angry red line. Her gaze wandered possessively over the corded grace of him. Her eye fell to his cock, already beginning to lengthen and harden. Her mouth watered. Jon knelt at her feet, working off her boots and untying the laces of her trousers.

“I know you’re a queen, a bloody fierce woman to boot. I know you don’t need me.” He silenced her protest with a quick kiss.

“But I know I don’t feel whole unless you’re near. If you feel even a fraction of what I feel for you . . .”

“You know I do,” Daenerys whispered. Jon gave her a crooked smile. Jon’s deft fingers plucked at her dragon brooch, letting her tunic fall open in a ripple of soft grey wool.

“I know you do. So let me love you. Let me unwrap you like the gift you are,” he said, leaning close.

Daenerys swallowed her tears, dragging him into a kiss. First a gentle press of lips, then that opening, the taste of his mouth, the skill of his tongue. He pressed her back on the mattress, a sweep of his arm spreading her hair in a silken wave. Jon teased her tunic open, peeled off her trousers and smallclothes until she was as naked as he.

“So beautiful. My love,” he purred, scraping his beard along her cheek, the shell of her ear as his mouth pressed tender kisses to her neck. Daenerys cherished the weight of his skull, his thick hair, the neat curves of his ears.

The heat built slow, Jon seemed determined to kiss every inch of her. The air of the room was warm, the coverlet downy soft beneath her. His hands smoothed down to her breasts as he traced the arch of her collarbone with his tongue. Pleasure was an insistent ache low in her belly that sharpened as he rolled her nipples between rough fingers. She arched beneath him, seeking friction.

“Jon,” she whispered, cupping his head to her breasts. He groaned, burying his face between them. Gods, she loved the chafe of his beard, a delicate scrape. His dark eyes, pupils blown wide, met hers as he laved and suckled her nipples. Daenerys whimpered, needing his weight and the press of his cock. He kissed his way down her belly, settling between her thighs.

“Mm, so sweet. Gods, I love your cunt. The way you smell and _taste_ . . .” Jon said, folding her thighs wide. The first lap was a gentle, teasing curl that made her squirm. All it took was a few more glancing licks before her release rose up in long shudder.

“More. I want more,” Daenerys said, thrusting her hips up toward his face. Jon’s groan sounded inhuman. His grip on her thighs felt bruisingly hard, but that hint of pain made the lapping and suckling so much sweeter. Daenerys moaned as he edged her closer, than eased off, scattering soothing kisses on her thighs and belly. Only when she subsided in his grip would he dive in, suckling her harder. She struggled in his grip, begging words falling from her lips. Pleasure pulsed white at the edges of her vision, a mirage so waveringly close.

“Jon, please!” Daenerys said. Jon crawled up her body, taking her mouth in a rough kiss.

“I love you,” he said, sinking deep inside her in one hard thrust. Daenerys shrieked, nails biting into his shoulders as pleasure washed over her in sobbing waves. He eased her through it with crooned love words and gentle rocking of his hips. When she lay limp and sweating beneath him, Daenerys found her voice.

“Oh Jon, my Jon. I love you,” Daenerys said, cradling his face between her hands. Jon moaned, his brow furrowed.

“Gods, Dany. I can’t . . . I can’t be gentle.”

“Ride me hard, Jon. I want to _ache_ tomorrow,” Daenerys said, hands smoothing down his back to cup his buttocks with the spur of fingernails.

“Gods, _yes_!” Jon said, rising up on his hands to thrust deeper.

The first deep thrust made her see stars. A cherished thought bubbled up from the depths of her soul. _Fill me with your seed. Put your child in me._ It was so sweet and so painful, she clenched her eyes shut. It was a fool’s wish to hope for, to pray to gods she didn’t believe in; she had not bled since the day the witch cursed her. That didn’t stop the wanting. A beautiful child of their mingled blood, borne of love.

Jon set a punishing pace, their flesh meeting with the dull thud of a blow. Daenerys clawed and bit at him, urging him to fuck her harder. It was a savage thing, the blinding need to be as close to him as possible, to possess and claim. Her breath came in whining sobs as pleasure twisted and throbbed inside her, Jon’s pelvis rubbing her pearl with each deep thrust. Her release crashed over her like thunder. Daenerys blinked through tear-blurred eyes, enthralled by the snarling god riding her. His grip on her hips was painfully tight. _Gods, yes. Bruise me._ Jon would wear her scratches, and she would wear his love bites and bruises. Jon buried his face in the side of her neck as he shuddered on top of her, every muscle eloquent with strain.       

 

 

Jon gasped for breath as he tumbled back down. Daenerys’ pulse pounded against his lips, an echo of his own. _Gods_. Jon had never been a religious man. He prayed to the old gods of the North, but the closest thing he’d come to sacrament, to holiness was in Daenerys’ bed. Jon cradled her in his arms, burying his face in her hair. To any man who met Daenerys Stormborn, she was close enough to a goddess to count.

“Daenerys,” he said, the last syllable emerging in a low hiss.

Jon rocked gently, struck anew by the sweet clutch of her cunt, the clinging shiver of inner muscle. Each thrust pushed his seed deeper inside. The thought was both unbearably arousing and heartbreaking. He wanted to mark her with his, bruises with his fingerprints, fill her full of his seed until her belly ripened with his child. Then the whole world would know who she belonged to. His poor love, she believed to her bones that she was barren. As a bastard boy from Winterfell, he’d never given much thought to children. But he found he wanted to give her a child. A babe with her beautiful eyes and hot temper.

His cock, softened from his release, surged back to aching hardness at the thought. A greedy refrain of ‘ _mine, mine, mine’_ chanted in his head. The pleasure swung up toward pain, every sensitive nerve screaming as he rocked, unable to stop himself. Beneath him, Daenerys writhed, limbs twining around his. The sound that left his lips was almost a sob.

“Dany, I can’t . . . I can’t stop!” he said, looking down to where they were joined. Jon spread her thighs high and wide, eyes rapt on the flushed red lips of her cunt around the root of his cock.

“Don’t stop. Please don’t stop,” Daenerys said, teeth sunk in her lower lip. Jon pulled out with a whine of loss.

“Ride me, love,” he said, leaning his back against the nest of pillows at the headboard. Jon pumped his cock, slick with her juices and his seed. Daenerys crawled toward him, breasts hanging ripe and heavy.

“Yes,” Jon breathed, darting close to steal a kiss. She returned it with a low hum, dragging her fingers through his hair.

Daenerys braced her hands on his shoulders as she sank down on him. So _good_. Jon’s eyes rolled shut, riding that line of pleasure so intense it was pain. Jon framed her hips between his hands, cupping the soft weight of her arse as she rode him. Her violet eyes were dark, pupils wide and round. Soft white skin flushed pink and gleaming with a sheen of sweat. Her fingers kneaded her pearl in circular movements as they rocked. It spun on, a hot, endless eternity.

“Jon, _Jon_!” Daenerys said, her hips shuddering as she came again. Jon groaned.

“Look at me, let me see those eyes,” he said, cupping her face, twining his fingers in her snarled braids as he thrust up, _squeezed_ by her sweet body. Their lips met in a messy kiss.

Jon guided her beneath him, still so hard inside her. They twisted and writhed together, lost in heat and pleasure. Jon gripped her hips, howling as he came inside her. Jon nestled close, grunting as he softening cock slipped free. Lassitude lay heavy on him as the madness of passion began to ebb. Jon breathed a sigh. Worship came close, but didn’t quite articulate it. When they made love, it was as if his world was defined by the borders of his body and hers. Her body, her face, her voice.

“Too tight,” Daenerys muttered, smacking his arse in rebuke.

“Sorry,” he said, loosening his embrace.

The sweat began to cool, so Jon pried himself off of her to right themselves on the bed and burrow beneath the coverlets. Daenerys rose to use the privy, returning to bed with cups of watered wine. Jon drank his thirstily, grateful she didn’t bend to dress. Queen or no, she was his for the rest of the night. Daenerys curled into him with a harsh sigh. To push away their looming separation, Jon strove for conversation.

“Do you not like pet names?”

“Hmm?” Daenerys said, blinking up at him.

“Pet names. Terms of endearment. Do you not like them? I’ve heard you call your dragons ‘darling’ and ‘love.’ Does that only apply to your children?” he asked, softening the implied rebuke with a smile.

“For so long I had to keep what I felt for you in a box. I thought of you as ‘Snow.’ I couldn’t let myself think of you as anything else,” she said, with a shrug.

“And now?”

“I suppose they just don’t come naturally to me. I can’t think of one that suits you.”

“‘Love’ is simple enough. I think I’d like the sound of it,” he said. Daenerys set her cup aside, resting her soft hand against his cheek.

“My love,” she whispered, and damn it all, just the words made his throat close up.

“My love,” he repeated, leaning in for a kiss.

She woke him in the night, her mouth on his cock. In the velvet dark, they made love to each other in wordless need. They sought pleasure and intimacy, twisting into every way their bodies could join. Jon mapped every sweet inch of her. In the sated quiet afterwards, Jon held her to his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to memorize the shape of her, the press of her weight. Sorrow yawned between them, though his brave love would not let a single tear fall.

Doubt assailed him. Was this the right thing to do? If Sansa or Arya were in danger, he _had_ to help them. And yet, the thought of leaving Daenerys was like trying to live without half of himself. Gods, how had she woven into the very fabric of his soul?

“You need sleep. You have a long journey tomorrow.” Her whisper was a teasing puff of breath on his chest. Silence fell between them, broken only by the faint crash of the sea.

“Do you understand _why_?” Jon whispered. A long moment of silence answered him, enough that he hoped she hadn’t heard in her slumber. Daenerys squirmed in his grip and Jon breathed deep of the wafting scent of sex and her underlying notes of rose oil and soap. Dry lips pressed kisses to his eyebrows.

“I understand your decision, but don’t expect me to be happy about it,” she said. Jon snorted in reluctant laughter, tension bleeding into profound relief.

“Of course not.” After a moment, he added, “Thank you. For understanding. I know how hard this is for you.” Daenerys heaved a sigh against his chest.

“I love you, Jon Stark. Come back to me in one piece,” Daenerys said, nestling beside him. Jon swallowed hard, touched by her casual trust.

“I will, I promise. Dream sweetly,” he rasped, kissing the top of head.

“You as well, my love,” Daenerys said.

The night passed fitfully for Jon. It was the same mix of anticipation and fear that he felt before a battle. Ghost sensed his disquiet and whined at the foot of the bed. It was a small comfort that Daenerys would at least have Ghost to watch over her. As much as he wanted Ghost at his side, a giant white direwolf would attract unwanted attention.

Daenerys shook him awake. A glance at the window found the gentle grey of predawn light. Jon tried to muster a smile for her. The one she gave back to him was thin. Already a chasm yawned between them. They dressed and ate in silence.

In the bailey, Asha Greyjoy waited with her ironborn, wearing her customary grin. Jon snuck a glance at Daenerys, her face stony and remote—every inch the queen he met on horseback outside the Twins. He understood, he really did. What did he expect? Tears? Kisses? No, she would send him off with a memory of resilience. She was a queen. Their private goodbye had been last night. Pages had already saddled Flint. Brienne, Ser Talhart and the men they’d chosen were armed and standing at attention in the bailey. Aggo had promised to ride for Lannisport and bring Flint back to the Rock. There was nothing else to do but leave. Jon cleared his throat, facing Daenerys. Though her expression was calm, her eyes were the pale, sharp violet of an amethyst, stormy with emotion.

“I will return with all haste, Your Grace. We have a war to win,” he said, bending over to kiss the back of her hand.

“See that you do, Ser Stark. Remember _Valar Morghulis_ ,” she said, her voice husky.

“I will remember,” he said, clenching his jaw. With a bow, Jon turned and clattered down the stairs. There was an ache beneath his breastbone, but he supposed he’d get used to it.

  



	23. Part XXIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon the Voyager.

Part XXIII

 

“Have you found your sea-legs yet, Snow?” Asha Greyjoy said, clapping him on the shoulder. Jon groaned, slumped against the railing. He retched over the side, though only bile was left. He swiped his mouth on the cuff of his jerkin and squeezed his watering eyes shut. Maybe by blotting out the image of seething, endless grey waves and greyer sky would help. Jon was fascinated by the sea, but now there was nothing he despised more than endless open water.

“Aye, just watch me walk on water,” Jon said, spitting over the rail. Asha snorted, resting her elbows on the rail as she looked at him sidelong. Those wide grey eyes, that arrogant curl of her mouth, she looked like Theon, and that made him want to punch something.

“Northerners never do well at sea. Not in several thousand years,” Asha said, casting a critical eye of over the sail and heading.

“Warne! Tighten up our fore! The rocks are sharp the closer we get to Oakenshield!” she shouted.

“Aye, Captain!” the squat ironborn said, fingers deft on the ropes.

“Another Brandon,” Jon said, swallowing another wave of bile as the ship sliced through a swell. Icy spray dampened his clammy face.

“Eh?” Asha said, beads of seawater glistening like pearls in her short cap of dark hair.

“Brandon the Burner. He set the North’s ships on fire,” he said. Asha nodded.

“Regretting that now, hmm? House Greyjoy would never have risen to power had the North kept their navy. Say what you will about the Ironborn, but we never let an opportunity pass us by.”

“No matter who you trample on to take that opportunity,” Jon muttered. Asha rolled her eyes, mouth pinched as if she’d bitten a lemon.

“Gods! What does the queen see in you? A grim bumpkin born on the wrong side of the sheets,” she said. Jon glowered at her, tempted to correct her. _I am a Stark of Winterfell, a knight and dragonrider._ Missing Daenerys settled into a dull ache in his chest, though his griping stomach gave him little time to ponder it. 

“How long until we reach the Mander?” he asked, striving for a neutral topic. Asha startled him by leaping up on the rail and leaning over the side, supported by a line wrapped around her arm. Squinting into the misty horizon, she grinned down at him. Her long coat fluttered around her like leathery wings.

“We’ll reach Oakenshield by nightfall, and slip by under cover of darkness. Their signal fires are a pain in the arse to contend with. Then we’ll need those muscles of yours, Snow. Poling up the Mander takes a strong man.”

“It seems slower than riding.”

“A skiff is light and maneuverable. While we might get away with riding unnoticed—the Reach is bloody huge—our best bet is to slip upriver quick and quiet. Trust me, Snow. We’ll get you to King’s Landing and back to those sweet tits soon.”

“Watch your mouth,” Jon snapped, gripping Longclaw’s hilt. Asha’s smirk fell away. She squatted on the rail, braced expertly against the pitch of the ship with a cat’s light balance.

“I guessed by those longing looks at the Rock you and the queen were fucking. Can’t blame you, she has a fine arse. I don’t care who the queen fucks. But you’d do well to remember that she is a queen. Eventually some perfumed ponce is going to come along and offer swords or gold or whatever it is queens will trade their cunts for. And she can’t be having babes with your pretty curly hair, hmm? Look how it worked out for Cersei Lannister.”

_Mine and damn the consequences_ , he’d said. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d thought just the scenario Asha proposed. Things were different now though. He was named Stark, a dragonrider. Named Daenerys’ second. Surely now he would be considered worthy of her? Jon’s jaw clenched hard enough to hurt his teeth. Missing her was a constant ache low in his chest, actual, physical pain.

“Daenerys is nothing like Cersei.”

“Aye. That’s what worries me,” Asha said, expression serious.

With that, Asha left him to his thoughts, barking orders as she did so. Jon squirted water from a skin to rinse his mouth. He couldn’t sit and pine for her. He had work to do.

Tyrion had a long scroll of ideas on how to chip away at the tottering statue of House Lannister, especially in retaliation for the Lannisport fire. A man had to admire the sheer ruthlessness when Tyrion applied his considerable intellect against his remaining family.

In the search for Sansa or Arya, Robb had sent Brienne. Jon and half a dozen of his men were to accompany Asha up the Mander to King’s Landing. One of Tyrion’s spies, his former squire Podrick Payne was in the city, working at a tavern. He could smuggle them into the city unnoticed to meet their mysterious ally. They were due in several weeks’ time to meet at a tavern in Flea Bottom. _By the time the first true snow falls_ , the scroll had read.   

Jon staggered across the deck and ducked below to the cramped cabin. Ser Talhart and five others lay in various tangled states of misery as he. Only Brienne seemed unaffected. Even nearly a week aboard and Jon still felt queasy with the pitch and roll of the deck underfoot. The room was unbearably hot, reeking of vomit and unwashed bodies. 

“Greyjoy says we should reach Oakenshield by nightfall. Come morning, we’ll be on the Mander.”

“Thank the gods! I swear by any god there is I will never set foot on a ship again,” Ser Talhart said.

“Aye. We’ll see if Greyjoy is as good a captain as she boasts. Between rough seas and currents around Oakenshield, we should be in for a long night,” Jon said.

The afternoon passed in agonizing slowness. While he was able to keep down some broth, the nausea remained, his stomach quivering and lurching along with the ship. Captain’s orders bid them to stay below deck, and not a man complained. Jon settled himself by sharpening Longclaw, then his dirk, then the sock knife tucked in his boot. Then he turned his attention to oiling his boiled leather armor. Heavy plate was suicide on the deck of a ship, so thus his lighter leather. A couple of the men diced, and Ser Talhart snored beneath his lowered cap. Though Jon felt leagues from sleep, he settled on the floor, pillowing his head on his folded arms.

_The world spread before him, every rolling hill, ridge, river and tree limned with gold. The grass was soft and lush in high summer, and he lay lulled by the music of water and the hum of bees. Then to the North, an echo of cold. Faintly, the high, thin cry of a wolf’s howl and the flutter of wings. An ancient voice holding the gasps of dying men and the rustle of dead leaves: **Jon. Jon. The Isle. The Isle of Faces.**_ **Find me. Find me. Find me, Jon!**

“Jon! Wake up!”

Jon snapped awake, finding Ser Talhart’s square face above him.

“We should arm. It’s nearly time,” he said. Jon swiped the sweat from his brow.

“Aye. Aye, give me a moment,” he said.

A glance out the murky window found full dark, the sky a blank grey-black slate. By the time he’d choked down a stale biscuit and wine and settled into his armor, the dregs of the dream faded. Together, Jon, Brienne, and his men clattered up the stair to deck. In the middle distance stood the island of Oakenshield, seat of House Hewett.

“A shame we’re sneaking by at night. I hear the signal fires of the Shield Islands are a sight to behold. I hear the roof of the castle has green tiles,” Brienne said, excitement crackling in her blue eyes. Jon smirked.

“I think tonight it will be a good thing _not_ to see the signal fires,” he said.

“True,” Brienne said, donning the hooded cloak to hide the shine of the moonlight on her fair hair.

“Quiet now, lads. Eerl, the mainsail! Hagen, tighten up that drag line!” Asha hissed, darting around deck like a mad crow.

The wind was with them, as far as Jon could tell, the ship glided through rough swells. The moon shone in scattered beams on the water, the black bulk of the island sharp against the shimmering sea. Jon’s mouth was dry.

“Now the plan is to sail up the mouth of the Mander, then we disembark?” Ser Talhart asked.

“Aye. Then Asha’s men will sail back to Pyke. Hopefully without being seen. Then no Lannister men will be looking for us,” Jon said, knuckles white on the lip of the railing.

“What happens if they raise the alarm?” Ser Talhart asked with a nervous glance at the jagged black spears of rock surrounding Oakenshield. The ironborn had been by turns gleeful and morbid describing the treacheries of riptides, rogue waves, and ships run aground on hidden rocks.  

“That won’t happen,” Asha said, nudging Ser Talhart’s shoulder, “now shut up.”

They froze, gliding past the empty black eye socket of a guard tower. Jon squinted into the gloom, searching for a hint of movement. Just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, there was a scrum of movement on the wall.

“Hawkeye!” Asha said with a wave.

“Got ‘em,” the gruff ironborn replied, poised with a longbow on the ship’s crosstree, squat and black like a vulture. The guard on the wall paused, warming his hands at the brazier, talking to his companion. Hagen Hawkeye waited, keeping them in his sight as the ship slipped by. Jon held his breath, conscious of every creak of the ship, every flap of sail . . . The _Black Wind_ crept by, silent as a shadow. 

“We’re clear of the main guard tower,” Asha hissed, “Another hour or so and we’ll be at the mouth of the Mander.”

Jon paced up and down the deck, marking out the steps as time ticked by. He found he was too nervous to be ill, a small blessing. Oakenshield faded in the distance, and fortunately, Jon could see the black shape of land on the horizon. So close . . . The bulk of Oakenshield loomed behind them. For himself, Jon wouldn’t feel safe until there was solid ground beneath his feet. He felt the itch of watching eyes on the back of his neck.

Under Asha’s direction, he and his men began loading their supplies in the skiff lashed to the side of the ship. The labor took his mind off the guards, though standing poised in the bed of the skiff, Jon saw only ocean. Surging water, endless lurching . . . Jon retched over the side. Some of the sick was caught by the wind and slapped against the ship’s hull.

“Watch where your puling, Snow!” Asha said, laughter in her voice.

“Bugger off,” Jon said hoarsely, setting down the crate of hard biscuits. Gods, his throat felt sore and raw. As he watched, there was movement in the water, a sleek black shape. A triangular fin broke the surface.

“What’s that?” Brienne asked from above.

“A shark. Big one too, look at the tailfin,” Asha said, pointing to a smaller lashing fin slicing through the surface. Jon clumsily staggered toward the rope ladder. He certainly felt safer with the deck boards under his feet.

“Are there sharks in the Mander?” Ser Talhart asked, eyes fixed on the shape in the water. The shark disappeared into the depths quick as thought. Asha shrugged.

“I’ve never seen one. It seems they don’t like the water. Too sweet for their taste,” she said.

“Do you think we’ll make it?” Jon asked, with a longing glance at land. Asha squinted at the sky. It was still full dark, Jon guessed the hour of the wolf.

“We’ll be cutting it close,” she said, “you lot go below. Get out from underfoot.”

 Warne Harlaw, Asha’s second, stumped below the sky began to lighten toward dawn. From their murky window, Jon saw the shapes of the shore. _Thank the gods._

“Hurry up, you shites! We have to be off beyond the Shields before the guard changes,” he said, fat lips peeled back in a sneer to reveal chipped, yellowed teeth.

Jon leapt to his feet, settling Longclaw and catching up his rucksack holding his armor and supplies. A brisk wind made Jon grateful for his cloak as they stepped on deck. One by one, his men and Brienne climbed down in the skiff. Jon followed, his grip white-knuckled on the skiff’s low side. Two ironborn lowered the skiff to the water was a loud splash. Asha leapt down, landing with practiced balance.

“Remember Harlaw, keep her low and fast! Drowned God save you from my wrath if the shielders raise their alarm.” Settling at the prow, Asha gestured to Jon and his men.

“Poles! Quickly now!”

 

Asha hadn’t lied. Poling upriver took strength. Training with the sword and hard labor had toughened Jon’s muscles, but he was more used to bearing a shield and sword than a river pole. Jon stifled a grunt as he dragged the pole up, sweeping it forward in tandem with Ser Talhart and his two other men on the starboard side of the skiff. His arms trembled, his shoulders ached, his hands felt like they were on fire, chafed to blisters even through his gloves. By his guess, they’d been at it for at least two watches since dawn broke in sunny brilliance.

The Mander was rich with the loamy scent of silt and rushes. The air was cool and moist, even though the rising sunlight was enough make him sweat in his leathers. Gnats and midges danced in the air. The breadth of the river surprised him, wide enough for two of Asha’s longships to sail up side by side. Jon shared a glance with Brienne who answered with a grim smile. None of the northmen would break first. It was a matter of honor to prove their strength to an outsider. Asha stood balanced on the prow, keen eyes scanning the murky river ahead for sand banks and submerged obstacles. As time dragged on, Asha broke the silence in a sweet clear voice.

“ _Hey don’t ye see that black cloud a risin’?/Way haul, we’ll haul away_ Jo _!/Nay whinin an’ my mam told me/Way haul, we’ll haul away_ Jo _!”_ With each repetition of ‘ _Jo_ ,’ Asha stabbed her pole down for a sweep, guiding them through the current. Jon recognized it as a common work song, used to pass the time. He and the men took up the answering phrase.

“ _Hey don’t ye see that black cloud a risin’_?” Asha sang.

“ _Way haul, we’ll haul away_ Jo!” Jon grunted, slamming his pole down for another pull. His arms and shoulders shrieked.

To take his mind off the pain, Jon’s eyes wandered over the gently rolling fields of the Reach, still tinged with green even at this late season. The wide open fields felt strange after the Westerland’s crags and the Riverland’s dense woods, what trees were to be found were in the ordered lines of orchards. He and Daenerys had poured over maps of the Reach and the Crownlands, and he’d memorized every holdfast and road on their route to King’s Landing. His love had a fierce, loyal heart, but life had taught her cruel lessons of betrayal. Her worry touched him.

“ _Oi found meself an Arbor lass_!” Asha said.

“ _Way haul, we’ll haul away_ Jo!”

Another half a watch passed with Asha leading them in songs to ease the effort of work. The sun climbed in the sky, sweat streamed beneath the now suffocating weight of his cloak, exacerbated the strangely humid air. Each breath emerged in a low grunt, lost in the river’s murmurings. Asha stopped singing and danced to the back of the skiff, angling the craft toward shore.

“Whew! Pull up then, lads! Pull up!” Asha said, with an ushering gesture. Jon bit back a sigh of relief as they set aside their poles and stomped through knee-high marsh to shore.

“You northerners are tough bastards. Close to three watches’ worth of hard rowing without stopping,” Asha said, tossing a waterskin over her shoulder. Jon caught it, squirting stream into his mouth and onto his face. Sweet relief to the parched, burning tissue of his throat. Asha stabbed the skiff’s grounding stake into the dirt, tamping it down with a careless stomp of her boot.   

“Here, Theo,” Jon said, handing the waterskin to Ser Talhart. Brienne looked a little grey, so Jon clapped a hand on her shoulder in reassurance. Asha took a seat in the rippling shade of a willow. His men staggered up in various attitudes of exhaustion. Jon sank onto the ground beside Brienne. The breeze cooled the sweat on his brow in sweet relief.

“Are there any biscuits to be had?” he asked, ravenously hungry.

“Aye,” Brienne said, handing him two. The hardtack was dry as dust, and crunched between his teeth. Still, it was food.

The group chewed in silence, broken only by the soft chuckle of the Mander. Jon washed down the unpalatable lump of hardtack with tepid water, longing for a side of venison with spiced honey, fried potatoes with butter.

“We made it past the shielders. I think the only house close is Horn Hill, and old Randyll Tarly has sworn to Cersei, as far as I know. She made him lord of who-fucking-cares. Last I heard, he was fighting your brother in the Crownlands, Snow. The only other real power along the Mander is Highgarden, and the Golden Company did us a favor and sacked the castle already,” Asha said, folding her hands behind her head. _Ironborn to the bone, they thrive in turmoil._

“The Tyrells are Lords Paramount of the Mander, right?” Ser Talhart asked, cracking his knuckles.

“They were. Until the Lannister bitch blew them to hell in the Sept of Baelor,” Asha said, eyes half-closed.

“I thought Mace Tyrell had _four_ children. Only Loras and Margery died in King’s Landing,” Brienne said, between bites of hardtack. 

“Aye, there were two others. Garlan Tyrell died during the War of Five Kings, at the Battle of Blackwater, along with Renly Baratheon and most of Stannis’ men. The eldest, what was his name? Willem?”  

“Willas,” Brienne corrected.

“Willas! He was the crippled one. He died when they sacked the castle.”

“Olenna left him behind?” Jon asked with a frown. A woman who would risk death for treason to avenge her murdered grandchildren would not leave her last living relative to die. Asha shrugged.

“Olenna doesn’t enjoy talking to a girl who ‘swaggers around like an idiot boy.’ She didn’t talk about Highgarden. I didn’t ask.” Asha settled against the willow’s bark. Jon stood, shaking the soreness from his arms.

“Brienne, take two of the men and scout around. I’ll see to the weapons. We rest here?” Jon said.

“Aye,” Asha said, “for at least a watch or two. The Mander doesn’t have many tributaries or side streams to get lost in, so if we pole on after dusk, we won’t get lost.” Jon nodded, parting the willow’s draping branches. Brienne, Ser Talhart and his son Ed moved in stealthy circles through the rushes, pushing outward.

Jon checked the lines tethering the skiff, scooping handfuls of river water to wash his face. The cool water felt heavenly. Jon heaved the bundled spears and longswords over his shoulder. He looked up into the cloudless blue sky near midday, the air so warm. He half-expected the dragons to be wheeling overhead. The feeling of loss struck him deeper than he anticipated.

“I’ll be back for another ride, I promise,” Jon whispered to Rhaegal.

Inevitably, his thoughts turned to the Mother of Dragons. Jon kneaded his breastbone, willing away the ache. How spoiled he’d been, being so close to Daenerys Targaryen for so many months. The world felt greyer and colder away from her. He craved the sharp thrill of meeting those changeable eyes, how her laugh touched him.

Jon heaved a sigh and stood. He squelched through soft river mud back to the willow tree. Brienne waited, standing at attention, her hand lightly curled around Oathkeeper.

“Anything?” Jon asked. “We saw a few smallfolk to the north, but nothing else.”

“Good. I for one could use a bit of sleep on solid ground,” he said with a smirk. Brienne nodded with her usual thin smile.

“You are not a seafarer, Ser.”

“Indeed not. Maybe I’ll try again in a little boat off Tarth, but not on open sea,” Jon said, knowing how deeply Brienne longed for home.

“The waters around Tarth are a sight behold. A very pleasant way to spend a summer afternoon with a loved one,” Brienne said slyly. Jon grunted, claiming a bit of grass beneath the swaying willow branches. They made a reedy sort of music as the breeze moved through.

With an exhausted sigh, Jon stretched out his head pillowed on his wadded cloak, loosening Longclaw for easy draw. His protesting limbs loosened and relaxed and soon he was asleep.  

 


	24. Part XXIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble on the Sunset Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (crickets) It got a little quiet. Not liking the separation? But just think of how awesome the reunion will be! Right?

Part XXIV

 

 

“Forgive me Duckfield, but I couldn’t understand that last part,” Daenerys said, with a hint of a smile. The large man strained hefty muscles against his bonds, mouthing the gag with increasing ire. At their first interview, the knight in the pretender’s service spat in her face. Grey Worm had not reacted well, thus the deep cut weeping blood above his right eye, trickling down the side of his face in fat, sluggish drops. The morning sun shone, casting angular shadows through the bars of the rough-hewn timber cage.

“Now I’ll ask again. Where is Aegon,”–gods, it stuck in her craw to say that name—“and where does he plan to strike next?” she asked, measuring each word.

With a nod, she motioned Rakharo to loosen the gag. Grey Worm stood with his dagger poised over Duckfield’s groin. The red-haired man squinted at Grey Worm, then Rakharo, then at last herself.

“I told you--” he began. Daenerys made a helpless gesture with her hands.

“Now, we’ve been over this. You insist you don’t know anything, I insist you do, you dig your heels in, I have to hurt you. It’s very tedious. Let us circumvent all that and you tell me what you know.” A long pause.

“Storm’s End. He’s going to Storm’s End,” he said at last, in a gravelly voice.

His hard blue glare lifted to look over her shoulder at Melisandre. He’d fallen for Melisandre’s charms at a tavern, drunk and boasting of his lord’s exploits. No doubt waking to bonds and the threat of castration had been a sobering one. Daenerys glanced at Melisandre, who shook her head slightly. Whatever malady had affected her had ebbed with rest. There was shimmering vitality to her luminous skin, the ruby pulsing at her throat.

“Try again, Duckfield,” Daenerys said, feigning nonchalance. Grey Worm darted low, cutting a hole in the brawny knight’s trousers. Straining away from the knife, Duckfield at last met her gaze, pleading.

“He landed at Griffin’s Roost! He knew the Stormlords would rise to meet him, so he marched for Storm’s End!”

“Or that the Baratheon House had been decimated by the Lannisters, you mean, leaving the castle conveniently vacant,” Daenerys said, moving around the iron pole in the center of the square cage.

“Where is he going? North, to aid the Lannisters? West, to plunder what’s left of the Reach? He rode south towards Dorne, but then turned back. Why? _Why_?” As she spoke, Grey Worm inched the knife closer to Duckfield’s groin.

“North! He’s going north, for fuck’s sake!” his voice swung up towards a squeak. Daenerys paced in careful circles around the central pole, the hem of her crimson cloak pinned at one shoulder kissing the ground.

“Where?” she asked. When he prevaricated, Rakharo grabbed a fistful of his red hair and yanked his head back.

“ _Where_?” she said, in a voice soft and steely. The point of Grey Worm’s knife pierced Duckfield’s grimy smallclothes with a sibilant pop. Daenerys glimpsed a nest of coarse red hair before averting her eyes in disgust. 

“Harrenhal! To crush the garrison!” Duckfield squeaked, muscles quivering in an effort to shrink away.

“How many men?”

“The Golden Company and the Second Sons, I don’t know how many,” he said, in almost a whimper.

“Think harder, Duckfield, or you might soon lose your ability to father children.” Panting and sweating, straining against his bonds and simpering, he made for a pathetic sight. _And this man taught the pretender the sword? I could best him myself!_  Then again, most men would react the same if their manhood was likewise threatened.

“Uh, I think I heard Griff say something about a battalion riding west,” he said.  

“Now we’re making progress!” she said, with a mocking smile. At Daenerys’ signal, Rakharo released the man with disgust.

“Anything else? Any tiny detail?”

“That’s all I know; I swear it by all the gods!” Duckfield said.

“Good. That’s enough for today,” she said.

Daenerys felt soiled as she left the block of timber cages. While there was a part of her that delighted in making her enemies squirm, she took no pleasure in causing pain. Ghost resumed his habitual place at her side, her furry white shadow. Daenerys sank her fingers into his thick ruff, comforted by his warm bulk. 

“That _chiftik_ weeps for mercy. That is good, khaleesi. It is right for him to fear you,” Rakharo said, nudging her shoulder as they climbed the stair from one of the Rock’s lower courtyards. Daenerys’ answering smile was thin.

“It is known, _Qoy Qoyi._ The world I intend to build will be a better one, though men are right to fear a dragon,” she said.

“Lady Melisandre!” Daenerys ushered her forward with a careless flick of her fingers. It did not escape her notice that as Melisandre moved to her side Rakharo made a subtle hand gesture warding off bad luck behind her back. Dothraki were superstitious as a rule, and more so with the Asshai’i priestess. _Maegi_. 

“Rakharo, get a report from this morning’s scouts. Storm-Son said the watch overnight saw signal fires to the east,” she said.

“As you say, khaleesi,” he said. It was imperative her men remained focused and sharp through the winter months. Discontent and boredom would cripple them. Grey Worm maintained the Unsullied with regular drilling, but men like her Dothraki and Westerosi craved action to sharpen their instincts.    

“Yes, Your Grace?” Melisandre said. She looked more herself in those draped in red silk.

“Has your Lord spoken to you? Have you seen anything in the flames?” she asked in an offhand tone. As they crested the stair to the bailey, a cold sea breeze greeted them.

“Nothing new, Your Grace. I petitioned the Lord to show me the South, the capital. Nothing has been revealed as of yet,” Melisandre said. Daenerys bit back her disappointment. The Lord of Light’s intervention had always been unpredictable, the promise of aid even more dubious.

“Very well. Notify me immediately if anything changes,” she said.

“My Queen!” A battalion of men shouted as one as she reached the bailey. Daenerys raised her hand in acceptance. The group was Essosi infantry drilling under Storm-Son’s stern eye.

“Our enemies will tremble when they hear us approach!” she shouted, first in Valyrian, then again in Common. A smattering of applause answered her.

“Fire and Blood!” she said.

“ _Fire and Blood_!” the men echoed in one voice. The sound reverberated off the walls, raising gooseflesh on her skin. _My army_ , she thought with pride.

Daenerys nudged Ghost with her hip, striding across the bailey to mount the stairs to the keep. She closed her eyes, letting the cold air rich with the scents of sea salt and wood smoke wash over her. Ghost’s company helped push away her yearning for Jon. It had been little over a fortnight since she’d stood like stone, watching him sail away from her. The missing hadn’t dulled, but Ghost, her children, and a healthy dose of distraction took her mind off of worrying for him. Maester Jaron had made a habit of sending a runner three times a day to tell her there were no new raven scrolls.   

“My Queen,” a rough voice broke the moment of introspection. Daenerys opened her eyes to find one of Asha’s commanders, Taereg. A squat, scarred man, his bald pate gleaming in the sunlight stood, wearing a sour expression.

“Captain, how may I help you?” she asked. Taereg shifted, offering a strange, jerky bow. Daenerys waved away the obeisance, hiding her smile. Ironborn were unused to bowing to anyone, and needed practice.

“We’ve reports from the Iron Islands, Your Grace. A fleet was spotted sailing south of Pyke.” Sharp energy sang through her. The _Black Wind_ had sailed south alone. The rest of Asha’s fleet was at Dragonstone, or moored at Pyke. No ships were to sail this way, certainly not a fleet.

“A fleet?” she repeated, louder than she intended. A couple of the drilling soldiers glanced in her direction. Taereg scowled and offered a single, bleak nod. Not a minor nuisance, then.

“Grey Worm, send runners to summon the small council to my chambers. Immediately.”

“As you say, Stormborn,” Grey Worm said, loping with a long easy stride up the stairs. Daenerys and Taereg scaled the steps at a slower pace, Ghost tucked close to her side. The council chamber would be more comfortable, but the lord’s chambers were more private. The ironborn captain wheezed as they climbed the stairs at a fast clip. Ser Barristan opened the chamber door.

“Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah, come in. Missandei? Would you fetch some wine, please?” she asked.

Wordless, her friend curtsied and took her leave. Daenerys claimed the seat by the fire, appreciating the crisp breeze blowing from the open balcony door. Silence stretched the air thin, and Daenerys fought the impulse to fidget. Ghost sat beside her chair, quiet and watchful. Soon her small council filed in, her bloodriders, Lady Melisandre, and lastly, her Hand. Tyrion’s smile was wry.

“I can tell from the drawn expressions that we’ve had bad news?” he said, sauntering over to the table to pour his own wine.

“‘Dark wings, dark words,’” Daenerys said.

“I suppose that counts for kraken sigils as well as ravens, I suppose,” Tyrion said, with an arched brow at Taereg’s direction. Missandei arrived with two servants, circulating with wine.

“Missandei?” Daenerys said, offering her hand.

Missandei settled onto the chair at her side and took Daenerys’ hand in comfort beneath the drape of her cloak. Missandei was a good and true friend, one she was blessed to have. But at that moment, Daenerys missed Jon so much she could barely breathe.

“Give your report, Captain,” Daenerys said, in a clear, steely voice. Taereg coughed, his thick fingers clenched white on the haft of his axe.

“Two days ago, another of Greyjoy’s captains, spotted a fleet of ships several leagues south of Pyke.”

“A fleet? How many ships?” Tyrion asked with narrowed eyes. Daenerys’ stomach sank. His agents hadn’t known. This threat caught them unawares.

“By our count, thirty longships, five war galleys.”

“ _Five_?” Ser Jorah repeated, incredulous. Knighted as he was after the Greyjoy rebellion, Ser Jorah had seen firsthand the might of an ironborn navy. At Balon’s time, the Iron Fleet had boasted one hundred war galleys, unmatched after he burned the Lannister fleet at harbor. Asha’s fleet, though the only true naval power in Westeros, was much smaller. Her fleet boasted only two war galleys amongst their dozens of longships.

Daenerys clenched her jaw so hard it hurt her teeth. On land, they were safe. If this fleet was foolish enough to strike at the Rock, she had men enough to crush them. But if they chose to sail north to Iron Islands and burn Asha’s ships, then they would lose whatever naval might they had on this side of the continent. It would also make it considerably more difficult to ferry her men south come spring. _Unacceptable_.

“How many ships of Asha’s fleet remain on Pyke?”

“Twenty longships with crew and captains, one war galley, _The Nagga_. But there’s not enough men to man her.”

“Does this fleet fly a sigil? Who are they?” Daenerys asked. _I will burn them as I did the slaver’s ships in the Bay of Dragons!_ Taereg looked deeply uncomfortable, scowling at the floor.

“Black sails and no sigil, but the longships are fashioned in the way of the Iron Islands.”

“What does that mean?” Ser Barristan asked, his grim expression hinting that he already knew the answer.

“It means a Greyjoy has returned from the Doom,” Taereg said. Gods. Euron Crow’s Eye Greyjoy? Or Victarion Greyjoy? The mad Crow’s Eye or the dumb brute? One was a nuisance, the other a potential threat. _Regardless, all men burn._ Daenerys jumped to her feet.

“Ser Barristan, find me a suit of leather armor, please.” Tyrion set down his glass with a thump.

“Your Grace, you cann--” Daenerys’ temper flared.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Hand, but were you about to tell me what I can and cannot do?” she asked, voice sharp as a blade. Tyrion coughed, wisely swallowing whatever clever words lay on his tongue.

“You will have support when you fly for the fleet,” he said instead. Daenerys turned her eye to Taereg, who cleared his throat.

“I will send a raven to the captains. They will sail south,” he said.

“How soon will they be here?”

“Three days.”

“And this fleet? How soon could they arrive?”

“Hopefully not before then.” Though Taereg did not intent it as a jape, Daenerys snorted.

“Aye. See the ships are sent. Find men to man the war galley. We may have need of her soon.”

 

The rest of the day flew by as preparations were made to defend against this newest threat. To the east, to occupy her Westerosi and Dothraki, she sent out scouting parties and calvary. Even if Duckfield’s intelligence on the pretender’s movements were false, it would do the men good to march. Then the change of guard needed to be addressed, Maester Jaron and the other healers complained they needed supplies, and a rash of ague had broken out amongst the prisoners, exposed to the elements as they were. Most distressingly, a Dothraki man had been caught looting the Highgarden gold stored beneath the Rock. The last matter stuck in her throat like a fish bone.

“Khaleesi, what shall we do with this man?” Kovarro asked, expressionless. As her bloodrider, he would execute the offender without question or thought. Daenerys heaved a sigh, nursing the headache brewing between her eyes.

Dothraki were accustomed to looting gold and riches from those they conquered. When they followed her across the sea, Daenerys had made each man swear a blood oath to her to fight when she called. No man was to rape or steal or destroy. Gold was given as payment, and then when the war was over, the promise of lands. There was no question as to his guilt; the dothrakaan in question, Azzo, son of Zichommo, had been caught by a group of Unsullied and Dothraki patrolling the grounds. She thanked the gods for small mercies. Had it only been Unsullied, Azzo could stir up dissent between the two main bodies of her army by claiming unfair treatment.

“Bring him to me. In the bailey. I will hear his words from his own mouth before the people,” she said in Dothraki, rising from her chair.

“As you say, khaleesi,” Kovarro said.

The door shut behind him and Daenerys rolled her neck to loosen the cramping muscles. Her back ached from the hard-backed chair, right hand cramped from writing. The writing table bore the fruits of her day’s efforts: two dozen raven scrolls written in her own hand, stamped with her red dragon seal, another thin sheaf of paper detailing her orders for the scribes to copy and send to each of her allies across the continent. Another thicker stack detailed supply and arms tallies for her appraisal. The map dominating her table was marked with troop movements, updated by her generals with each new raven scroll.

Ghost rose from his customary spot at her feet to nose her cheek. That coaxed a smile from her, she sank her fingers into the sleek white fur of his face, finding the spot he liked behind his ear.

“Good boy. You miss him too, hmm?” she said.

Pacing before the fire, she looked into the murky blue depths of the cabochon sapphire adorning the Stark ring. Since Jon had left, she’d taken to wearing it. The heavy silver ring fit on her thumb, if loosely. The ring, along with Ghost, made her feel close to him.

_What would have me do with this man, Jon?_ Azzo had stolen from her, stolen grain from the mouths of the men and women in her care, stolen the swords that would win her the continent. Had the man been Westerosi, she could have had been satisfied with flogging, imprisonment, stripping of lands or titles. But Azzo was Dothraki, and Dothraki only respect the strong. _One of my own men._ They called her Mhysa, didn’t they?

Heart heavy, Daenerys peered down at her tunic, the grey wool wrinkled from long wear. Alone, in silence, she dressed in black leather trousers and boots, and a long woolen tunic dyed a rich dark blue. She added her dragon pin at her right shoulder and its draping chain, gleaming silver. Simple, everyday garb. Those who would sympathize with Azzo would take offense if she floated down in silks with silver torqs and diadems.

“Stay, Ghost. I don’t want you scorched should this become messy,” Daenerys said, ruffling his fur in passing as she closed the door behind her. Ser Barristan and Rakharo fell in step behind her. Reaching through their bond, she woke Drogon with a gentle nudge, summoning him to the bailey.

“You are khaleesi. We follow your word,” Rakharo said, any vestige of his usual grin gone. The bold bones beneath his bronze skin emanated a stubborn strength. The tacit agreement beneath the words loosened one knot of tension.

“Thank you, blood of my blood,” she said.

There was none of the day’s earlier exuberance in the air as she descended the stair in the bailey. What men could fit in the bailey stood in neat ranks, silently buffeted by the cold wind bearing the bite of snow. Drogon lay poised on the rampart, smoke curling from his nostrils. Torchlight cast wavering shadows over clean-swept flagstones. Azzo knelt in the center of the bailey, flanked by Kovarro and Zichommo, his father. The older dothrakaan with his silver braid falling to his shoulder blade stood leaning on his _arakh_. The accused eyed her with gleaming black eyes, blood seeping from his cut lip. Both men’s faces were smooth, expressionless. For a people known for their volatile tempers, Dothraki could wear silence if it suited them.

“My bloodrider Rakharo will translate my words so all may understand,” Daenerys said, in ringing tones, echoed by Rakharo’s deep voice in Dothraki.

“Azzo, son of Zichommo. What say you to the crime you are accused of?” she asked in Dothraki. Azzo surged to his feet, murder stamped on his features. He was a slender man, but strong muscle strained against his bonds.

“Is a dothrakaan not promised gold with conquest? I have fought and bled for you!” he said.

“Were you not given your payment upon arrival at Casterly Rock?” she asked. Anger brewed low in her belly, at this petty, greedy man. At the terrible position he put her in.        

“Yes, but--”

“You named the price unfair? Was there some act of great valor I overlooked? Did you bring me the head of Leo Lefford, as Kovarro did?”

“No.”

“Did you slay the sellswords who shot my dragon with a ballista as Rakharo did?”

“No.”

“Did you storm the Lion’s Mouth as Ifakki did?”

“No.” With each answer, some of the fire drained from Azzo’s frame. He looked to his father for defense. Zichommo said nothing.

“So you say to your khaleesi as a sworn member of her khalasar that you deserve more than other riders for what? _Answer me_!” the word lashed out, like a whip.

There was a hint of a flinch, along with a wary glance at Drogon. _Give me a reason to save you. Give me something!_ Daenerys could see there were no words in his defense, nor any true sorrow at the crime, only at being caught.

“Great Stallion curse you, you barren, foreign whore,” Azzo said. Rakharo broke off his translation long enough to backhand Azzo hard across the face, the dull thud accompanied by a faint crunch. Blood flew in a thin arch as he crumpled, falling to his father’s feet. Daenerys met Zichommo’s hard black gaze.

“Does any rider here plead mercy for this man?” she said, first in Dothraki, then again in Common. Ringing silence answered her. Zichommo lifted his _arakh_. Daenerys tensed, maintaining his gaze. The man grasped Azzo’s short braid and cut it. The wicked sharp blade sliced with ease. Zichommo tossed the hank of hair to her feet. The look of betrayal Azzo gave his father struck her heart. _One of my own men, who swore a blood oath._

“Then as Queen, as khaleesi, I sentence you to die,” Daenerys said, voice clear as glass. Daenerys looked up to Drogon. A part of her thought Azzo would cry for mercy, try to run, or hurt her. He did not. She watched as her Dothraki dragged him to a stake, Azzo spitting curses all the way.

“ _Dracarys_ ,” she said. A gout of black fire engulfed Azzo and stake alike. A shrill scream, and the image of his bones lit by black flame burned into her eyes.

 


	25. Part XXV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood in the Water, Part I

Part XXV

 

 

“Here, let me help you with that,” Asha said, interrupting Jon as he soaked his hands in river water. The blisters had burst after their third day poling up the Mander, and stuck to his gloves. The cool water felt heavenly on his abraded hands as he scrubbed gummy crusts from his gloves.

Dusk settled over the Reach, with a dove’s low, mournful cries filtering through the trees. Water lapped against the sides of the skiff in a soothing sound. Faintly, the soft breeze brought him snatches of conversation from the fire. The men had made camp a bit further off shore, beneath the shade of an oak. A surprise rain shower had left them damp yesterday. Jon rolled his shoulders to ease the day’s ache.

“I’m all right,” Jon said. Asha ignored him. She riffled in her rucksack and produced a round tin. Peeling it open, she smeared both Jon’s palms with a thick, greasy paste, smelling pleasantly of peppermint.

“What’s this?” Jon asked, kneading his burning hands together in sweet relief. Asha’s habitual smirk faded.

“As a girl, I served under my father’s captains, training and reaving and learning. They didn’t take to being saddled with a lordling, much less a girl. They’d seen my brothers die in battle. So I swabbed decks, scraped barnacles off ships’ hulls, but mostly I rowed. I was like you tough northern bastards, I refused to quit first. I don’t mind, it made me strong. And angry. This stuff saved my hands. Bear grease, ground witch hazel, and peppermint oil.” It was the longest and most earnest speech he’d ever heard from her. Oddly, it touched him.

“Thank you,” Jon said, sincere, tucking his damp gloves through his belt.

“You’re welcome. Keep it. Share it with your men,” Asha said, raking a hand through her thick black hair.

“What’s this?” Jon said, gesturing to curves scar on her right hand, on the meat below her thumb. Her scowl deepened and Jon half-expected her to brush it off and stalk away.

“I rode north with my crew and some men-at-arms. Maybe fifty of us. Leagues away from my ship, armed with only dirks and boarding axes, to the Dredfort. I found him sleeping in a _kennel_. Like a dog. Drowned God save him, he stank of filth and piss and dog. I tried to get him out. But he was frantic, saying he wasn’t Theon, but _Reek_. Only Reek,” Asha broke off, her voice holding the barest quaver. She traced the scar.

Jon swallowed hard, horror washing over him in waves. Theon had betrayed Jon’s family, taken Winterfell, killed most of the loyal guards left at the castle—men he’d known and jested with—burned two innocent boys to make the world think he’d killed Bran and Rickon. But did he deserve such a punishment?

“Fucker bit me, like a dog. A groveling dog loyal to Ramsay Snow,” Asha said.

“Robb took Ramsay’s head. There was justice done,” Jon said, laying a hand over Asha’s scarred one. Asha met his eye, and all of her laughing saunter was gone. Instead he saw a howling grey nothingness, as cold and merciless as the sea. The smile she wore was bitter.

“Aye. It took Robb Stark too long to get north. All that time Ramsay was abusing Theon, shaving off pieces of him. If the bastard knew where Theon was, he took those answers to the block. For all I know, Theon died in that kennel, so far from the sea.” An ironborn lament, not to be given back to the waves. Jon felt a soul-deep remorse for hating Theon so.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said.

“Forget it. I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” Asha said, jumping up in a smooth, brisk motion.

“Get some sleep, Snow. We should pass Highgarden by midday tomorrow,” she said, leaping atop the skiff to brood in silence. Jon shouldered his rucksack and scaled the rise to the oak. A flutter in the rushes made him half-turn, thinking it was Ghost. The night lay still and quiet. Jon shook his head and walked on. Ser Tallhart greeted him, offering him a wineskin. Jon took a swig, passing it to Brienne. After a grim supper, Jon shared the tin of salve, to broad exclamations of relief. Talk was low-voiced, edged with weariness. A long day’s poling made for sore muscles and lagging wits.

“I’ll take the first watch. Get some sleep,” Jon said, chewing hardtack. He was already thoroughly sick of camp fare.

As his men settled on their bed rolls, curled like sausages around the fire, Jon stared into the distance. Tall grasses waved idly in the wind, the night clear and cool. As time flowed on, as lazy as the Mander’s current, he contemplated the stars. Before his death, Maester Luwin enjoyed astronomy, he even kept an observatory at Winterfell. As such, Jon recognized the shapes of the Ice Dragon, or the Sword of the Morning. The Ice Dragon gave him pause. The glittering blue star in the rider’s eye pointed the way north, the way home. A dragon and rider . . .

“I hope you are well,” Jon whispered.

A snap of a branch caught his attention, crisp and close. Jon jumped up, gripping Longclaw. He waited, nerves drawn taut as a bowstring. His mouth felt dry. It sounded again, behind him in the direction of the river. Was it Asha?

“Asha?” Jon hissed, nudging Brienne’s bedroll with one toe. In the low orange wash of firelight, he saw the gleam of her blue eyes. Pressing one finger to his lips, he pointed down bank toward the river. Quiet as a shadow, Brienne rolled to her feet, Oathkeeper in hand.

“Asha?” Jon said again, moving in a circle to wake the men with subtle nudges. With Ser Tallhart and three others, he motioned for them to remain lying, ready to pounce. He heard snatches of Asha’s voice over the murmur of the river, and another, deeper register.

“We’ve a nip of ale left. Let me check with my useless man-at-arms,” Asha said, sauntering up the rise.

“What are you--”

“Shut up! Do we have any ale?” she hissed at Brienne. Riffling through their belongings, Brienne came up with the ale jug. Asha snatched it, taking a long swig before finger-combing her hair.

“Just our bloody luck, we run into sellsword scum. I’m Jeyne Grey, a westerland lady headed to King’s Landing. You’re my idiot man-at-arms,” she said, stabbing a finger in Jon’s direction.

“The rest of you stay hidden in the grass! _Quiet_! I’d rather not have to kill them—they outnumber us two to one,” Asha said. Ser Tallhart and the men looked to Jon.

“Go. Quietly, now,” Jon said. The men melted into the tall grasses, stepping light and quiet, timed with the gust of wind. Asha shoved the ale jug in Jon’s direction and stalked down the rise, motioning for Jon to follow.

The sellswords lounged around the skiff, upending rucksacks and riffling through their cooking supplies.

“Now come on, lads! Didn’t I promise you ale?” Asha said with a girlish giggle.

“We couldn’t wait for your idiot man-at-arms, little lady,” one said, draping a casual arm around Asha’s shoulders. Jon’s grip whitened on Longclaw’s hilt.

Every one of them were armed to the teeth. One big brute laid a war hammer at his feet with casual familiarity. Another leaned a steel spear against their longboat. A couple had silver hair, startling him, until he remembered they were Essosi, probably Lysene. Most wore only woolen tunics, a couple boasted motley bits of armor.

In the weak moonlight, he couldn’t find a tattoo, so perhaps not the Golden Company. Were they the Second Sons? The Stormbreakers? Both were groups of mixed Essosi sellswords and Westerosi exiles. Asha twined her fingers with brute’s and danced a circle, freeing herself from his cloying grip.

“Well come on, then, idiot! Serve them ale!” Asha said, with an impatient gesture. Jon shot her a black look, then grudgingly circulating pouring ale as Asha flirted and chatted. The tall, silver-haired one with the spear, bearing a tattoo of a fish on his face, sloshed his horn cup.

“More ale, boy,” he grunted. Jon kept his gaze meekly downcast, glimpsing their barge tied to a nearby tree upriver. That explained why they hadn’t heard them approach. Asha teased and danced from man to man and Jon found a sliver of hope. Maybe they would get out this without shedding any blood.  

“Is your man-at-arms mute as well as stupid, milady?” the man dancing with Asha said—presumably their leader.

“No, he can speak, but he’s grim, sullen sort. I don’t know why my mother puts up with him,” Asha sighed, pouting prettily. The man was solidly-built, and seasoned judging by the grey at his temples and the scars on his arms.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Grenn,” Jon said, blurting the first name he could think of. He disliked the shine in the other man’s narrow dark eyes. Jon rested a loose hand on Longclaw’s pommel.

“Grenn. That’s quite the sword you’ve got. Know how to use it?”

“Of course. Milady’s lord father would hardly trust send me to mind her if I didn’t,” Jon said dryly.

“Good, good! We’d hate to deprive milady of such a competent protector.” Jon heard the mocking in the tone, as only a bastard could, but swallowed the burn of anger.

The men seemed relaxed, calm. Content to share ale and amusement. How refreshing would it be for a group of pillaging sellswords to treat a vulnerable woman with respect? There were stranger things in the world.

“Where do you hail from, ser?” Asha asked, batting her eyes. Her finger traced the line of muscle on the man’s forearm.

“Milo of the Free City of Pentos, Captain of the Stormbreakers,” he said, puffing out his chest like a proud bird. _Stormbreakers_. Jon knew little of them other than they were a sellsword company from Essos who lived by their contracts. Thinking of his own Stormborn, he disliked the name Stormbreaker.

“Sounds exciting! Traveling the world for gold and glory!” Asha said. Her twitter was very convincing.

“It is, milady. We are in the service of the true king of Westeros, Aegon of House Targaryen, trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen,” the tattooed man with the spear said. _Pretender_. Asha brow puckered.

“I thought the Mountain slew him when the Lannisters sacked King’s Landing,” she said.

“That was a tanner’s boy. The real Aegon was smuggled across the Narrow Sea by Jon Connington,” Milo insisted. _How convenient. And all we have is this Aegon’s word that it is so. Any sane man would follow a true Targaryen whose blood no man could question._   

“Fascinating. And what are you handsome gentlemen doing in the Reach?” Asha asked.

“King’s orders,” Milo said, dark eyes shuttered. Jon felt a warning chill creep up his spine. Asha didn’t miss a beat.

“Well enjoy the ale with my compliments. Grenn and I shall retire for the night. A long day’s rowing ahead. Seven blessings.” She tried to move past Milo toward the skiff, when his grip tightened, pinning her still.

“Not so fast, milady. Don’t deny us your companionship,” Milo said, his grin revealing the faint wet gleam of white teeth. Jon tensed, casting a wary glance at the rest of the men. Without his noticing, each had edged closer to their weapons.

“I’d really rather seek my bed, please,” Asha said, with steel beneath the light tone.

“That’s not very polite. I insist you stay,” Milo said, propelling Asha down to sit on the riverbank.

“Hands off the lady, if you please,” Jon said, pulling Longclaw a few inches from its sheath. Asha rose with catlike grace, shedding the simpering act like an ill-fitting costume. Her posture was straighter, her gaze sharp and direct.

“Well, we tried,” she said, with a sharp smile and a shrug.

A flutter of movement, a whine of steel. Asha’s axe buried in Milo’s forehead. His expression was of blank surprise as blood trickled down his face. He fell to the ground with a squelch of river mud. Jon cursed under his breath as he drew Longclaw. The sellsword with the war hammer lunged first, swinging with a roar. Jon ducked, the wind of the blow whistling in his ears. Jon darted a quick slash with Longclaw, hamstringing the brute’s left leg. Spinning around, he found another sellsword lunging toward him, armed with twin Myrish stilettos. The sellsword darted low, intending to stab Jon’s leg. Jon moved to intercept with a backhanded slash. The weight and strength of Longclaw was his advantage. The Valyrian steel cut through stiletto and the hand that held it. The man shrieked, clutching his spurting stump. Another blow across the throat finished him.

“ _To arms_!” Jon shouted. His men echoed the war cry, emerging from the grasses. Jon risked a searching look for Asha, finding her clutching a man in a parody of an embrace, burying her dirk in a sellsword’s throat. The air was filled with the clash of weapons, curses and shouting, the sharp, hot smell of blood.

“Come here, you wee fucker!” the sellsword with war hammer lurched toward Jon, his trouser leg dark with blood. Jon danced back, intending to tire out the big brute. Enormous, fat, and wheezing, the sellsword collapsed like a felled tree, Ser Tallhart’s longsword buried in his back. Their eyes met in understanding, and thanks.

Jon swiveled to look a—pain burst in the back of his head. Staggering, he found the Lysene with the spear approaching. His ears rang, blood filled his mouth from a bitten tongue. Jon shook himself, raising Longclaw to block another blow. He shifted with only the river at his back.

“Not so stupid, eh?” the man said, grinning. He was right to be confident, Jon thought. With a long spear he could stick Jon at a greater distance. The metal haft made it unlikely for Jon to shorten the distance by cutting it. Jon settled into his stance, ignoring the pounding in his head.

“Come on, then. Or are you afraid to die as quickly as your captain? Killed by a woman, no less!” Jon taunted.

In answer, he whirled the spear in a wide circle, Jon ducked the blow, keeping his sword in a half guard. The sellsword advanced, pushing Jon back until he was ankle-deep in the Mander. The other man hoped Jon would stumble, drop his guard long enough to strike.

A quick glance found their longboat within easy reach. He had to wait for his opening . . . Jon batted aside the spear point and lunged through the water to climb atop the longboat. High ground and unpredictable footing made for a hard opponent to reach. They traded blows, locked in a cocoon of intense concentration. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, each swing made his sore arm muscles burn. Jon pressed forward, getting close enough to slash the sellsword’s spear arm. Blood spurted from the wound; he’d nicked a vital vessel, the blood looked black as ink in the wan moonlight.

“ _Snow_!” The sound of Asha shouting his name distracted him for an instant.

Pain was a red-black explosion in his face.

Jon felt himself falling backward, arms wind milling. The Mander closed over him. _Cold_! Jon floundered, clawing upward and breaking the surface. Longclaw’s weight, usually so easy, now felt like a lodestone.

The Mander’s sluggish current dragged him downriver. Jon swam, angling toward shore. There was a snag around his ankle—rope? Vines?—he kicked at it, struggling to stay above water. Then the tangle around his leg snagged on something and dragged him under. Panic rose up sharp and jagged as he floundered blind and losing his air. Jon hacked at the thing around his leg with Longclaw. One blow, another, and he felt a loosening . . . the edges of his vision pulsed black. Jon mustered his strength, wedging Longclaw alongside his leg and sawing through. _There_! Free! Jon kicked hard for the surface, lungs about to burst . . .

He broke into the cold night air with a grateful sucking breath. Blood was a hot trickle, blinding his right eye. Weary down to his marrow, Jon swam to shore. He dug his fingers into thick handfuls of mud. Dry land. Sweet, solid land.   

He staggered to his feet, trying to ignore the chill seeping into his bones. There was a warning twinge from the knee that been bound, but it did not worsen as he bore weight. Jon clawed through bramble and sharp reeds. Gods, he couldn’t even hear the sounds of battle. He strained his eyes, attempting to make out the shape of the skiff or sellsword barge. Nothing. Jon heaved a sigh, grateful long conditioning had kept him gripping Longclaw. The sword would have been lost had his grip faltered. Jon glanced at the stars. By his guess, the river had dragged him maybe a league downstream.  

He gingerly touching his eye. A hard knot was forming below his eyebrow, the skin taut and tender. He hoped it wouldn’t swell shut. Jon tramped through the dense undergrowth lining the river. It was tense, sweaty work, hacking through the foliage. Stealth was all but impossible. A rogue amusement trickled through him. He almost apologized to his sword. Imagine, using a Valyrian steel sword as a pruning knife!

Time passed with Jon hacking away at vines and reeds until he reached camp. A deserted camp. Jon paused, dragging in deep breaths. The sky was beginning to lighten toward dawn, it was a softening of the blackness, really. Sunrise was still hours away. Dead sellswords littered the ground. Both skiff and barge were gone. Cold sweat dewed on his skin. Asha and his men were still alive, clearly, but how could he reach them on foot?

A snap in the bushes made his skin prickle, raising Longclaw in a guard.

“Jon? Jon?” Brienne’s voice made him limp with relief.

“Brienne! I’m here!” he said. Soon, Brienne’s lanky form shouldered through the bramble.

“Are you all right? I saw you fall.”

“A bit battered. Tired. Where is everyone?” he asked. Brienne’s shrug was barely visible in the gloom.

“I moved downstream to look for you after you fell. Asha must have ordered the men to push on,” Brienne said. Jon sheathed Longclaw with a crisp snap.

“Let’s get moving. Maybe we can catch up with them at Highgarden.”

 


	26. Part XXVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood in the Water, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, friends. This one is rough.

Part XXVI

 

 

“Are Asha’s ships prepared?” Daenerys asked, scowling into the dense fog surrounding the castle. Daenerys rolled the Stark ring around her thumb; it became a comforting gesture. An overcast dawn fell gently over Casterly Rock, but the air held a foreboding quality, especially as the accursed banks of fog rolled in from the sea. A raven from Pyke the night before told her the enigmatic fleet—who ignored all hails and shot down any ravens—had turned south toward Casterly Rock. The night had been sleepless. She curled on her side, with Ghost pressed against back, missing Jon. It was a low, constant ache low in her belly. She worried for the threat lurking on boundless, suddenly malevolent sea.

“Aye, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said. Daenerys nodded, twitching her shoulders in effort to calm her jittery energy.

“Would you do me the honor of helping me arm, Ser?” she asked. A weary smile twitched beneath Ser Barristan’s white mustache.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The leather armor felt too light and Ser Barristan fumbled with her braid. Daenerys coiled it to lay on top of her head and shared an amused glance with Missandei as Ser Barristan eased her helm in place. The black steel helm crowned with three spikes of stone was comfortingly familiar. Daenerys sheathed a dirk at her hip, hid another knife in her boot, a third rested heavy inside her left bracer. Ser Jorah and Grey Worm both had tutored her on the rough points of its use. _Stick them with the pointy end_ , as Jon had said.

Ser Barristan braced both hands on her shoulders, his grip heavy and stern. He looked every inch Ser Barristan the Bold, Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Lord of the White Tower, his eyes gleamed beneath white brows.

“Remember, the ironborn are a petty people without honor. They want only to reave and steal, but they have a certain low cunning. Keep your distance,” he said.

“I may be a young woman, but I listen and learn. Trust me, Ser,” Daenerys said, mustering a comforting smile. Ser Barristan returned the smile, face creased in a web work of wrinkles.

“I do. With my life and honor, Your Grace.”

Missandei and Ser Jorah were equally solemn as the group of them filed out of the lord’s chamber, Ghost trotting after them. Daenerys projected a calm she didn’t feel as she marched past the ranks of her men.

“My children, _naejot nyke_!” she shouted into the dawn, as a cold wind blew and horns sounded.

Three bellows echoed through the castle as her children, sleek black shapes skimming through the grey. Her heart lifted to see them fly. Drogon landed with a shudder on his favorite rampart. Through their bond, she felt the steady pulse of his strength. Rhaegal and Viserion perched on the upper rampart—Rhaegal fluttered his wings fussily—regarding her with gleaming eyes. Daenerys braced her gloved hands on the railing, aware of the press of fearful, needy eyes.

“The Queen!” Ser Jorah shouted. Cries of her names and titles washed over her. Daenerys raised her hand for silence.   

“I swore to protect you from those who would harm you. I swore our enemies would die screaming. I will maintain that vow and crush our enemies!” A fearsome din rose from the assembled men as they pounded their shields and shouted her name.

“Perhaps soon they will learn how easily wood burns!” Daenerys allowed a grim smile. The jape had the intended effect of easing tension and instilling a sense of confidence. A ripple of laughter and shouts raced through the crowd. Daenerys scaled the stairs to Drogon. She petted his horned head, absorbing the heat and bulk of him.

“Come, my loves,” she said, climbing to her seat.

Opening her mind to their bond, she felt their hunger. Though well-rested, their hunger felt edged with boredom. Much like her men, they _craved_ action. _You will have it today, my darlings._ Rhaegal’s mind pressed toward her, looming and fierce, as her children were. His mind always held notes of a strange sadness, a soul-deep yearning to seek, to hunt. Rhaegal pressed his confusion toward her, along with an image of dark-hair-no-scales-growling-voice-Jon. The image struck her heart, the face of her love seen through the eyes of her child. He seemed smaller, his features more pointed, his teeth sharper, but Rhaegal saw Jon truly. She had no answer for him, and pressed the thought of distance, of Jon’s own hunt. That seemed to satisfy Rhaegal, he arched his neck and growled.  

Daenerys gathered herself, tightening the leg straps. From the bailey, she could barely make out the remnant of Asha’s ships moored below. Fifteen longships, and then the monstrous black bulk of their war galley, _The Nagga_. At her word, Taereg had recruited experienced sailors from Lannisport, Faircastle and Banefort to man their war galley. Five of the longships were held in reserve, at anchor beyond Kayce Point should they need assistance. A giddy feeling leapt in her belly, nerves and excitement both. Woefully outnumbered though her ships were, she had dragons. Beautiful and terrible, as no man alive had ever seen.

_“Sōves!”_ she shouted. Drogon’s wings spread wide, shifting his bulk to catch the wind.

With one clean leap, they were diving from the Rock’s sheer walls. Wind whistled within the confines of her helm, the cold brisk and bracing. Grinning at the thrill, Daenerys settled close to Drogon. He flew first, Rhaegal and Viserion at either of his flanks. Daenerys tightened her grip on the mental rein, drawing them close, so close their minds seemed to bump into each other. _One_ , one mind, one purpose: _destroy the enemy_. Below, she saw dim shapes of the ships sailing.

“Damn this fog. If only we could hold them another day,” Daenerys said.

Their approach forced her hand. Wait, and her ships would burn. Attacking an unknown enemy was nearly as nerve-wracking. Daenerys kept her children flying high, mindful of ballistae. They flew for what felt like hours through dense grey fog and greyer sky, only the dark sea below anchored them to a course. Daenerys trusted Drogon’s sense of direction and his keener senses. Daenerys sipped from her waterskin and watched the progress of the ships below. They were grouped together in a diamond-shaped formation, with _The Nagga_ at the front point of the diamond. A few powerful flaps of Drogon’s wings carried them beyond the fleet on a good strong wind.

Daenerys strained her eyes, then, frustrated she couldn’t pierce the gloom, sank into her bond with Drogon. She was no warg, like Brandon Stark. She could not merge minds with Drogon, but only see what he chose to show her. He sensed movement. Daenerys peered down and sucked in a gasp through her teeth.

The ships appeared from the fog as if by magic. The lead war galley was enormous, black sails as wide as Drogon’s wing. Beyond, a forest of masts. Daenerys did a quick tally. The count had been _wrong_. There weren’t thirty longships, but _fifty_. Scattered amongst them, she counted the war galleys. _Seven_. Her fleet had no chance. Her belly quivered. Drogon hissed beneath her. Daenerys gripped his spikes, reassured by his strength.

Through the bond, she pressed the need for utter silence. The element of surprise could mean the difference between victory and defeat. She urged Rhaegal and Viserion to bank away, along either edge of the fleet. A headache began to throb at her temples. The enemy fleet was spread across perhaps a league of sea. It would challenge her strength to communicate with Rhaegal and Viserion from that distance. _We can dismantle them as we did in Slaver’s Bay, and at the Battle of Golden Tooth. Sweeps from aloft and a great deal of fire._

Daenerys chose the lead war galley first. She couldn’t wait for her own fleet to arrive; they’d be slaughtered. A kindling of excitement crackled from Drogon, eagerness for battle. Daenerys grinned into the grey as he began a low dive, his enthusiasm caught inside her like the fragile flame of a candle. Squeezing her eyes tight shut, she reached for Viserion and Rhaegal, pressing the image of her wishes.

“ _Dracarys_!” she said. Black fire burst in an almost liquefied stream from Drogon’s mouth. The force of the blast pierced the hull, the deck catching in a conflagration of red and orange flames. The sail caught and shriveled. Daenerys urged Drogon up, seeing the green and white flares of her sons’ fire.

Galley and a nearby longship alike caught in glorious flame. And . . . silence. No screams. Daenerys leaned in the saddle, seeing men scurry on the deck, a few firing arrows that missed their mark. Were these sailors so disciplined that seeing their ship sink beneath their feet did not rattle them? Her confusion was echoed by her children, who had come to expect terror as their due. Drogon climbed in the sky, concealed from the fleet by the clouds and fog. She realized the fog was both curse and blessing. She couldn’t see them, but neither could they see her. Daenerys mustered a grim smile. Her children could wreak destruction with impunity.

Viserion and Rhaegal flew below, sowing devastation, their fire brilliant in the gloom. A glance to the east found her fleet fast approaching. The cold fear lingered in her belly, sharp and disquieting. Was this the feared Iron Fleet? Experience told her an enemy did not concede so easily, especially famed reavers such as ironborn. Her eyes raked the ships, searching for movement, or hidden ballistae.

Drogon snarled at being left out, surging down toward the fleet while she was distracted. Daenerys winced, he’d nearly shaken off her mental rein in his eagerness. She sank closer, focusing on the flap of his wings and the strain of his muscles, the brilliant black flame of his mind. Almost apologetic, Drogon waited for her command.

“ _Dracarys_!”

Again black fire arched down on the ship, raking the deck. Six longships and another war galley consumed. The sea burst into drafts of steam and salt as the fire kissed it. A graveyard of ships lay below, dozens burning in great, seething tongues of orange and red fire tinged with her children’s vivid colors. Others lay sinking, men by the hundreds floating dead. Resistance, if there was any, came in the shapes of dark arrows which pattered useless on Drogon’s underbelly. _May your Drowned God take you!_

Faintly, she heard the cackle of laughter. Harsh and mad, it shredded her ears. The fine hairs on her arms stood on end. Drogon wheeled back, flapping his wings to hover twice the height of a ship over the water. Daenerys searched for the source, finding man prostrate on the spar of a sinking war galley.

“Cursed wind take you, servant of the Storm God!” the man shrieked between cackles.

The ship groaned beneath the man, soon swallowed by the surge of the black waves. He seemed to seek the waves, visibly gulping seawater as the water closed over him. Daenerys shuddered. The ironborn were strange people. Daenerys urged Drogon higher, needing to see the positions of the enemy fleet and her own.

Through a scrim of fog and cloud, she watched her ships engage the northern cluster of the disordered enemy fleet. No expert in ships, she was thankful her captains had conceded to painting her sigil on their sails. The red dragon was easy to identify as the ships served and feinted with surprising dexterity, sailors scrambling deck. Daenerys tugged the mental leash. In her mind’s eye, she saw Viserion sweeping low to snap up a few fish milling about. Rhaegal was happily burning an errant cluster of ships, appearing like a demon wreathed in steam. 

“Come to me!” Daenerys said in Valyrian. She drummed her fingers on her thigh, deliberating. If she took to burning the other ships, her fleet would lack support. But if she stayed near her ships, the enemy could concentrate fire on her and her children—a strident male voice broke into her contemplation.  

“I am Dragonbinder! No mortal man shall sound me and live! _Blood for fire, fire for blood_!”

Daenerys swiveled Drogon toward the deep voice, on the deck of a massive, red-painted war galley. Daenerys froze, struck mute by the sight. A slender man stood with ease on the deck, his single eye glaring at her. _Euron Crow Eye_. And the man beside him held a horn, gleaming black in the eager light of dragonfire. Her belly quailed. _A hellhorn_. Meant to bind dragons to the will of the blower---

_“Sōves ñuha riñar!”_ Daenerys screamed, her voice cracking on the words.

Drogon flapped his massive wings, gaining height in the sky. Daenerys kneaded his neck as she would her silver to urge him faster, spurred by a terror so complete all other thought was a distant echo. Go, go, go now, go, fly, my children, fly, _fly_!

Daenerys looked wildly, seeking Viserion and Rhaegal. Viserion’s thin, almost frightened roar tore her heart in bloody chunks.

“ _Fly, Viserion_!” she cried.

The sound shattered the world.

 . . . An endless shivering scream that turned her bones to the molten blood of the earth. A wretched, unholy sound from the bowels of the lowest hell . . .

Daenerys screamed with it, clapping her hands over her ears. Gods, it was burning her. _Burning_! Was this how flames felt?

At long last, the air was quiet again. She clutched close to Drogon as the beat of his wings faltered, leaden with dread. Her dragon shook his great head, as if trying to clear it. Daenerys sought her children, reaching . . . and shied back. The bond was _severed_ , a ragged bloody tear pulsing red behind her eyes. Daenerys whimpered, smote by pain of the soul. Warm blood trickled in a steady stream from her nose. All three of her children flew in place, stalled. 

“Drogon?” her voice was small and weak to her own ears.

“Rhaegal . . . Viserion?”

Drogon craned his horned head to look at her. Slitted pupils wide and dark, his amber-red eyes trapped her in their heat. She could read no emotion in those eyes, only tremble before his ferocity. Her mouth was dry, her whole body trembling. Would he attack her? The fire would not harm her, but his teeth could end her . . . _Drogon, my child, my love . . ._  The thought was a lament and a plea.

“Fight the hellhorn, my love,” she said, maintaining eye contact, stealthily reaching down, unfastening the leg straps of her saddle.

“Remember me. I hatched you, remember? You used to ride on my shoulder as we marched. I taught you word for ‘fire.’ Remember that? I used to sing to the three of you until you fell asleep. I can’t sing, but you didn’t seem to mind,” she said in low-voiced Valyrian.

Freed from the saddle, Daenerys coiled her legs beneath her, crouching on Drogon’s back. Dimly, she heard the Crow Eye shouting commands in butchered Valyrian. Daenerys risked a glance down. Her children had flown high. The ships looked like child’s toys on the blank black slate of the sea. The water would be like hitting stone. A fall from this height would kill her. 

“ _Kill her! Come to me, dragon! You are mine_! _Obey_!” he said.

The dragons did not heed him, but neither did they seem to hear her. Daenerys risked a glance away, finding Viserion and Rhaegal even with Drogon, shaking their heads hard, like a horse trying to rid itself of a cloud of flies.

_“Kill her! Come to me, dragon! You are mine_! _Obey!”_

Daenerys grit her teeth, burrowing toward the ragged scar of their bond. The pain brought her to her knees. It felt as if a knife dug between her brows, _slowly_ , so slowly piercing skin and flesh and bone and brain. Daenerys felt the trickle of blood from her nose turn to a stream, filling her mouth with the hot, metallic taste.

_“Kill her! Come to me, dragon! You are mine_! _Obey!”_

“ _Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor!”_ she bellowed, the words torn from very marrow. Daenerys _reached_ , straining to touch Drogon’s mind. Ice flooded her veins; she shivered at the chill.

“Remember!” she cried, at the end of her strength. Drogon’s quivering lips peeled back to roar, the sound sharp and pained. Daenerys’ heart felt rent into three jagged pieces. Through the ether separating them, she could barely sense their pain. Resisting the commands was killing them.

_“Kill her! Come to me, dragon! You are mine_! _Obey!”_

Drogon shifted, whether to fly or attack, she didn’t know. All she knew was the movement jarred her from his back.

Daenerys fell. She plunged like a star from the sky.  

She tumbled in the sky, head over heels, catching dizzying glimpses of sea then sky then sea again. With a shrill scream, she spread her limbs wide, her body arched backward. The wind whipped tears from her eyes, her mouth dry as dust. The sea rose up, dark blue, so endless. _So this is what is to fly . . .  Jon, I’m sorry. I love you._

A buffeting of air had her flailing in the sky. Rhaegal darted below her, a nudge on her back made her crane her neck to look. Viserion guided her his snout. Daenerys landed hard on the edge of Rhaegal’s back, the wind knocked from her lungs. Her numb fingers scrabbled for purchase on his scales, finding none. With a cry, she tumbled through the sky. Her helm was gone, her hair whipped in the wind. The sea was so close! Too close!

Drogon dove below, wings flaring wide. Daenerys landed hard, finding a sure grip on his spikes. Drogon’s talons skimmed the waterline, Daenerys was soaked with salty spray, clinging to Drogon. A trembling thread of thought reached out, and was overwhelmed by the love of her children. The bond was restored, weak and fragile still. Daenerys pressed her forehead to Drogon’s warm scales and wept with gratitude. Muscles trembling, she crawled to her saddle, pressing a kiss to Drogon’s shoulder. There were enemies left to crush.

 


	27. Part XXVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The castle of Highgarden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who asked about the last chapter. Apologies, I had zero writing time last week. We should be back on track now. Enjoy!

Part XXVII

 

 

“Why do you think Asha left us behind?” Brienne asked, bringing the short sword down to hack out a path in the undergrowth. Jon paused to take a long swig from the waterskin. The sun was climbing toward midday—they’d been hacking away since before dawn. Despite the Reach’s gentle climate, winter burgeoned in earnest—even beneath a clear sky, the air held a frosty bite. His right knee complained from his misadventure in the river. The blow from the Lysene had swollen his left eye shut. It throbbed unmercifully, but Jon did his best to ignore it.

“My guess is the sellswords decided to cut their losses and run. While they didn’t know who we really are, they could tell their superiors a well-armed fighting force is--” Jon broke off the cough, a deep, rattling cough that shook his chest, a dunk in a cold river was to blame for that as well— “is making their way up the Mander.” Jon cleared his throat.

“A problem enough to send more men to deal with it. More men, more trouble.” Brienne nodded, gesturing for the waterskin. Her blue eyes flickered over him, warm with concern.

“I’m fine,” he said, mustering a thin smile. Brienne nudged his shoulder.

“You don’t look it. In fact, I think the queen might just fry Asha to a crisp when you limp back to the Rock,” she said dryly. Jon grinned, feeling a pang in his chest at the thought of Daenerys.

“She does have a bit of a temper. But it was my choice to go. I knew what I was getting into,” he said. A wary hope lit Brienne’s eyes.

“Do you think we’ll find them? Truly?” Hope, so fragile, like a thread of glass, connected him to his sisters. Jon held it carefully, lest it shatter in his hands. For Brienne, he knew she felt the same. False leads ended in the ashes of disappointment as she wandered for over a year looking for Sansa and Arya.

“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t,” he said, shrugging her rucksack into a more comfortable position. The two of them had salvaged precious little from the campsite, but they managed to find their bedrolls, a rucksack of supplies, and a couple auxiliary weapons for each of them. Jon chose the Lysene’s steel spear, an ideal weapon for fighting on the water.  

Jon and Brienne took turns bushwhacking. After their break for the midday meal, the foliage began to thin. Open fields of waving green-yellow grasses rippled under a faint breeze. The wind brought the smell of fresh-turned earth and the tang of sun-ripened grapes. Jon’s belly rumbled with hunger and he glared down at the hardtack and jerky with distaste.

“What I wouldn’t give for a slab of ham,” he said. Brienne snickered as she chewed.

“Agreed. Or venison stew?” she said. Jon hummed, salivating at the thought.

“Highgarden will have a market. Even if we don’t find the others, we can buy supplies,” Jon said, dusting crumbs from his hands as he stood. Brienne arched a brow, downing a long swig from the waterskin.

“With what coin? _I_ certainly don’t have a money purse,” she said. Jon smirked.

“The queen is nothing if not thorough,” he said, splitting the hem of his tunic to reveal the coins packed inside, wrapped in felt. Brienne’s pale brows rose nearly to her hairline, a wondering hand tracing the weight of his hem.

“There’s enough to buy us both horses and new swords along with our supplies if we wish,” he said.

“How clever. Your lady is much more devious than I thought,” she said. Jon preened, taking pride in Daenerys’ cunning.

“She is a force of nature,” he said. Brienne nodded, swinging the short sword in a neat circle before sheathing it at her hip alongside Oathkeeper. The foliage was thin enough to tramp through, and given how close they were to Highgarden, it would be wise to move quiet.

“You love her?” her tone was light, off-hand.

“Are you asking as Lady Stark’s sworn sword?”

“I’m asking as your friend,” Brienne said quietly. Jon cleared his throat, flexing his hands at his sides.

“Aye. Aye, I do,” Jon said, “she’s more than I ever dared hope for.” He shrugged, uncomfortable.

“I’m happy for you. It’s a rare thing to find one who cares for you as deeply as you care for them.” He heard the notes of sadness in her voice and felt a deep pang at the echo of her pain. A faint thought said Tormund would have liked her.

“Thank you. We should move on,” Jon said, clapping a hand on her shoulder.

“Yes. Now I have a good supper to look forward to,” Brienne said in a brisk tone, striving for lightness.

 

Highgarden had once been a shining jewel in the Reach, ringed walls of white stone rising like the rose of their sigil to the sky. Now that stone was black with soot, stained glass windows left in shards. The famed golden rose brambles surrounding the castle had been hacked apart and burned. A desolate stretch of blackened soil spread like a blight around the castle.

The Golden Company had fired the town too, but the smallfolk who survived had been quick to craft ramshackle replacements. The lumber smelled new, the thatch hung haphazard. Their dock has suffered too: all that remained was a few posts bearded with moss, forlorn in the waters of the Mander. Jon scanned the crafts moored at the dock. No sign of their skiff or the Stormbreaker’s barge. He touched his swollen eye, hoping it would heal soon. If a fight broke out, it would be difficult to defend himself with only half of his field of vision.

At the base of Highgarden’s walls, a two-storied tavern survived the recent sacking. Jon and Brienne shouldered their way through the throng, eyes watchful for friend or foe alike. One of Dany’s silver coins bought them kidney pie, fresh brown bread and a mug of ale, along with a few coppers left over. The room was packed and rowdy, rough men swilling cheap ale as serving women darted to and fro in a flutter of grimy homespun.

“Well. Check the dock and tavern were my best ideas to find Asha and the others. Any ideas?” Brienne said in a half-jesting tone. Jon shrugged, stabbing his spoon in for another bite. The pie tasted of home, of the North. Hot meat flavored the gravy, rich with peas and onions, and the crisp of crust. The ale was bit sour, but hot food filled up all the cold, aching places inside. Brienne tucked into her meal with the same alacrity, casting a critical eye across the tavern.

“The plan was to regroup at the next town east if separated. We can still check the market and poke around the castle. I’d wager there are rooms left upstairs.”

Brienne nodded.

“I’ll speak with the innkeep,” she said, rising. If there was any comment to an armored woman bearing a sword, no comment reached his ears. Under the pretense of savoring his meal, Jon cast a listening ear, straining for the mention of sellswords, or the capital. Lucky for him, gossip was rife in the surrounding booths.

“It’s not right, that’s all I’m sayin’. Them sellsword folk riding up, makin’ off with what’s left of the harvest, and for what? Hoardin’ grain in the capital for them high lords and ladies?” one older man said, dressed in the ragged homespun of a farmer. His companion nodded.

“Aye. I’m of half a mind to leave off and join the dragon queen. Word is her men eat like kings.”

“If it weren’t for the Targaryen prince, I’d say the old lioness don’t have no chance of winning,” the first man said. _The pretender? Even the smallfolk consider him a threat?_ Jon kept his gaze downcast, tearing off another hunk of warm brown bread to mop up the last of the gravy.

“He’s got elephants, sellswords, weapons. A match for dragon girl, no doubt about it. And what man would want to follow Rhaegar’s sister instead of his son?” Jon hid his derisive snort with a cough. That roused a real cough that left him hacking a glob of mucus onto the floor. A sip of ale soothed his sore throat and he strained to hear what the older man had to say.

“—wasn’t taught proper, that’s all. Women tend the house and mind the children. At least the Lannister woman was born here. Westerosi born, and crafty to boot. I’ll bet she’ll wed the Targaryen boy come spring, you watch.”

“Gods! She’s old enough to be his mother! Now the dragon queen is said to have a sweet arse--”

From there the conversation degenerated into crude and cruder remarks on the merits of highborn women. Jon stopped listening, worried he’d smash his clay cup into the side of the older man’s head if he heard one more word about Daenerys’ arse. Jon shoved back his chair with a tad more force than necessary, brushing past the younger man. His knuckles whitened on Longclaw’s hilt under the drape of his cloak. _Idiots_! Brienne was nowhere to be seen, so Jon ducked out into the cool evening air, dragging in a deep breath. Men would talk, even amongst her own men there was gossip. It shouldn’t irk him so.

“Grenn, are you ready?” Brienne said, nudging his shoulder. He nodded, grateful she remembered his false name, and for the distraction.

Jon swung his rucksack up to his shoulder, following Brienne along the southern wall of the castle. Highgarden boasted a garrison of Lannister soldiers, marching in pairs along the inner ramparts near the keep. The castle was sprawling, with endless courtyards and alcoves within the outer walls—impossible to defend with so few men.

By silent agreement, he and Brienne made their way south. They were already losing the light; to the west the sun sank into a sea of wispy cloud. Jon frowned. He disliked the omen of a red sunset. He flexed his sword hand. A distant thought worried for Daenerys.

“Did you learn anything useful?” Brienne asked in a low tone.

“The sellswords have made quite an impression on the smallfolk. Stolen the harvest and promised victory over the dragon queen,” Jon said, with a wry twist to his mouth. Brienne arched a pale brow.

“Not likely. Dragons change the rules,” she said.

“And you? Have you heard anything?”

“The innkeep was understandably a suspicious fellow. Loads of people travel through, despite the garrison, he said.” Brienne shrugged.

A snap of a twig from the bushes caught Jon’s attention. He nudged Brienne’s shoulder, his grip sure on Longclaw. Brienne gave a bare nod, drawing Oathkeeper an inch from its sheath. As one, Jon and Brienne pivoted toward the brush, drawing their blades in one smooth motion.

“Gods above, it’s me!” Ser Tallhart said, struggling to his feet. Jon relaxed, releasing a ragged laugh.

“Seven hells, Theo! I could have gutted you!” Ser Tallhart eyed the dark Valyrian steel of Longclaw’s edge with wide eyes.

“Aye, I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Asha and the others?” Brienne asked, settling Oathkeeper with a thump.

“Aboard the barge about half a league upstream. Darren and I have been doubling back to circle the castle and the town. Gods, what happened to your face, Ser?” Ser Tallhart asked, gesturing to Jon’s eye.

“Caught the end of a spear butt and took a swim in the river,” Jon said, gingerly touching the swollen weal. The skin still felt hot and tender, though the bones underneath were still sturdy. _Thank the gods for small blessings_.

“Come on! We should get a move on,” Ser Tallhart said, leading the way east. 

 

It was a watch or so after sunset by the time Ser Tallhart whistled three notes. A faint answer had them staggering through reeds to the ramp of the Stormbreaker’s barge. It was a sturdy craft, thank the gods. It felt almost as good as solid ground beneath his boots. His men gathered round, awash with relief.

“Ser Snow!”

“Thank the gods!”

“We thought you’d drowned!” Asha shouldered her way into the ring of men.

“Snow! Good to see you alive,” Asha said, draping a companionable arm around his shoulders. He could smell the ale on her breath—she was well on her way to being in her cups.

“Fuck, what happened to your pretty face?”

Casting a glance around the ring of his men, a couple sported bandages from their recent battle with the Stormbreakers. Asha herself wore a colorful bruised across her throat—some poor bastard had tried to throttle her, and probably had his throat slit for his trouble.

“ _You_ did,” he said in answer, shrugging out of the awkward embrace, “I heard you shout at me while I was dueling that Lysene sellsword. He caught me with the butt of his spear.”

“Good, good!” Asha said, taking another swig of ale from her cup. At Jon’s scowl, she shrugged.

“It obscures your face a bit. Good for slipping between towns without being recognized. Anyway, we’ll be riding in style, now. Toward the sea the currents are too unpredictable and the obstacles too numerous for anything deeper in draft than a skiff. But now . . . now this lovely scow with take us up the Mander in half the time if the wind’s with us.” Asha touched the scow’s rail with something like affection.

“Thank the gods, my arms are limp noodles by the end of the day,” Ser Tallhart groused.

“Isn’t this a bit conspicuous?” Brienne asked with a dubious frown.

“Not if we’re quick and quiet enough. And I’m quiet as a shadow and quick as a cat,” Asha said. Jon frowned, considering. The Lannisters were obviously leaving the management of the Reach in the hands of conscripts and sellswords. He trusted Asha judgement at the prow of the ship, and the closer they came to the capital, the easier it would be to blend into a crowd.

“If it gets us to King’s Landing sooner, so be it,” he said.

“Aye, we can be there within a fortnight under a good strong wind. But don’t think you’ll get out of poling. Even with a shallow draft, there’s still sandbars and sunken trees to contend with, especially the closer we get to Bitterbridge.”

“Set sail, Captain. We have work that needs to be done,” Jon said, mustering a thin smile.

 

Aboard the scow, Jon found he quite enjoyed the journey east and north on the Mander River. Sailing was far and away better than poling, though Jon was grateful for Asha’s skill at sailing. More than once, she battened the sail and guided them with poles through treacherous reaches. The days passed with pleasant swiftness, the weather mild and the winds favorable. Jon wasn’t sure if he could ever grow used to the warm press of southron air, damp and clinging.

Though perhaps boasting in her skills, Asha had them sailing at a swift clip. If not a fortnight, it would be close to that before they reached King’s Landing. They had passed the Cockleswhent, the fork of the Mander leading to Ashford five days ago. Cider Hall was a thriving river town; her townsfolk didn’t bat an eyelash at passing travelers. That night they’d feasted on river crayfish, roast potatoes and fine dark ale. The next branching, the Blueburn would lead to Longtable, and beyond that Bitterbridge, where they would disembark and go their separate ways. Asha would meet her men at Blackwater Bay, and Jon would ride with Brienne and his men up the roseroad to King’s Landing.

Other vessels sailed up and down the river, most were barges bearing goods or grain bound for the capital. Sellswords marched alongside the river too, though Jon and his men weren’t given a second look. Once Jon woke in a cold sweat, dreaming of pain and blood and an endless fall. They sailed under Asha’s sharp orders during the day, dicing and sparring in the evening as they refilled waterskins and took a hot meal before setting sail again. A man stood watch during the night as the scow sailed.   

At one point, the scow was beached on a sandbar in the middle of the river. Darren had fallen asleep during watch and the scow ran aground. A bloody shock staggering awake to shouts and Asha’s viscous cursing. Jon was on his feet with Longclaw in hand before he was fully awake. Jon and Asha both gave the younger man a scalping for shirking his duties. It took Jon and three others two days to work the scow free from the sandbar. That night as the wind whispered through the sail, the soft creak of wood and scrape of rope lulled him into a deep sleep.

_A howl echoed through his mind. Not Ghost or his brothers, but thinner, sharper, raising the fine hairs on his arms. Jon ran, but away or toward that shivering howl, he wasn’t sure. It was in his bones to run, yearning for burn of his muscles, the cold pain of air in his lungs. Then he swam through deep water, tasting salt and blood. He struggled, staggering toward shore. Before a tree as pale as bone with a face weeping red tears. **Jon. Jon . . . Find me. The lsle of Faces . . . The Isle. . .**_

“Jon, get up. You’re on watch,” Ser Tallhart’s voice, rough with weariness dragged him from sleep. Jon sat up, swiping sweat from his face.

“Aye,” he said, staggering to his feet.

The terror of the dream lingered, an unsettling itch on the back of his neck. Where were these dreams coming from? The red woman was at Casterly Rock with Dany. If she sent shadows creeping into his dreams, what was the purpose? There was a vividness to the dreams that reminded him of his wolf dreams, where he ran through the night as a direwolf, as Ghost. He remembered the cold, rich air. Snow beneath his paws. The craving of fresh meat and hot, dark blood. The dream drew him to a weirwood tree. Was it the old gods themselves calling him to the Isle? Even if that were true, _why_? Jon had no answers, only the clear, sharp stars hanging in the sky above.    

  


	28. Part XXVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys faces down Euron Crow Eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big shout out to all my lovelies who stuck with this fic, there is still quite a ways to go. I appreciate all the comments and kudos!

Part XXVIII

 

 

“Your hellhorn failed, Crow Eye. Did you think I was called ‘Mother of Dragons’ without cause?” Daenerys said.

The two of them stood on the deck of his blood-red _Silence_ amid a hellish graveyard of burning ships. Her fleet stormed the ship, though Euron Crow Eye was not such a feared warrior without cause either. He alone had cut down eight of her best sailors with that bloody axe of his before succumbing to sheer number. Even with Taereg’s dirk at his throat, Crow Eye’s blue lips parted to spit curses. 

“Dragonbinder is of Old Valyria, you mewling cunt. True power flows from the Doom. And you, a child with a Targaryen’s thin, mad blood? How can you be named master of it? I found a dragon egg, once. It would not hatch, so I threw it into the sea.”

The thought was an anathema for her, beyond any scope of madness. Breath rushed from her lungs, chilled by his vicious insanity. Daenerys lifted her gaze to the sky, reassured by her sons swooping through the fog. She straightened to her full height, feeling the expectant weight of watching eyes. A headache pounded with each beat of her heart, dried blood was a scabbed crust on her upper lip. Windblown, bloodied, she looked smaller, weaker beside the lean lethality of Crow Eye. 

“I am a trueborn daughter of Old Valyria, with the blood of conquerors and dragonriders in my veins. And you, a grasper from an upstart house, playing with powers you cannot fathom.” Daenerys beckoned one of her captains, a man by the name of Dougal.

“Gag him. We’ll deal with him once we return to the Rock,” she said, turning to face the railing. Beyond _Silence’s_ blood-red railing, the sea was so dark a blue it looked black, murky surface reflecting her children’s fire. Greyjoy laughed, a harsh, ugly sound.

“Your pretty boy marches into a nest of vipers! It will be the end of hi--” a thick wad of cloth cut off the horrid words. Daenerys’ heart lurched up, lodged in her throat. What did this madman know of Jon?

“ _Drogon_!” she shouted.

Even wheeling overhead, within her line of sight, she could not reach him through their bond, fragile as spun sugar. He heard her though; the black dragon roared in reply, slicing through the fog like a black blade. Drogon hovered above the deck and Daenerys crouched, buffeted by his wingbeats. A glance at Crow Eye found his single eye alight with naked envy. _You can never have them, not while I draw breath. My dragons or Jon. They are_ mine _._

Daenerys grasped Drogon’s tail, climbing up the spikes like rungs on a ladder. His heat embraced her, and at last some tension ebbed away as she settled in her saddle. Drogon craned his long neck to meet her eye, a low click sounding from his throat.

“I’m here, love,” she said, kneading the muscles at the base of his wing with one hand. Urging him up and around to face her fleet, she said: “Sail back to the Rock!”

As Drogon gained height in the air, Daenerys clenched her eyes shut, reaching for Viserion and Rhaegal. With effort, she pressed an image of fire, of burning Crow Eye’s _Silence_ after her men looted it. The two shrieked in response. Though a valuable ship, Crow Eye’s war galley embodied his rebellion, his strangeness, along with the poor wretches who sailed with him—tongues cut from their heads.

Euron Crow Eye was no better than the slavers of the Bay of Dragons, capable of unspeakable cruelty. As queen, she would be within her rights to execute him. Yet, the thought niggled in the back of her mind. He was still son of a great house, Westerosi by birth and blood. If she killed him after battle was done, her enemies could use that as fodder against her.

The horn, a massive, sleek black thing banded with red gold and Valyrian steel, called Dragonbinder, was wrapped in a satchel and hung on Drogon’s shoulder horn. As the fleet and her two sons turned back toward Casterly Rock, Daenerys and Drogon flew west out to sea. The horn, this wretched abomination, would never be used against her children again. If she had her way, she’d fly to the farthest reaches of the world and throw it into the mouth of a volcano.

“I suppose I’ll make do with the depths of the Sunset Sea,” she said. Drogon grunted, a gust of hot smoke puffed from his mouth.

The oppressive clouds began to thin, allowing scattered rays of sunshine to dance on the water. Daenerys laid her cheek against the warmth of Drogon’s scales, letting the flap of his wings lull her. Amber patterns moved behind her lids, the warmth of the sun and cool of cloud a pleasant contrast. Her stomach complained, weariness gnawed at her bones like a hungry wolf, but she tried her best to ignore it.

Her thoughts turned to Jon. He should be close to King’s Landing by now. Crow Eye’s words echoed unpleasantly in her head. ‘Pretty boy’ could only be a diminutive insult towards Jon, but how would Greyjoy know he rode with her? Qartheen warlocks had made Crow Eye shade of the evening, which turned his lips blue. She shuddered at the memory of their rattling chains, the press of darkness and the haunting call of their visions. Interpreting them was as confusing as a conversation with Lady Melisandre. Much like her Lord of Light, the warlocks boasted they could peer into the future, or untangle events happening on the other side of the world. Had Crow Eye had a vision of Jon? She was of half a mind to urge Drogon south, imprisoned sisters be damned.

 “Be safe,” she whispered to Jon wherever he was.

They flew for what felt like hours, skimming over the endless deep. Wildlife flew above and swam below, reminding Daenerys that the world continued apace beyond her concerns. Daenerys breathed deeply on the sea salt and smoke, the air tasting of snow.

“Lower, Drogon. Let us be rid of this evil thing,” she said. Drogon obeyed with a gentle dive, so low his wingtips kissed the surface of the water. Daenerys heaved the satchel’s weight, her bones loosening with relief as she watched it fall and disappear with a splash. _Goodbye and good riddance._

“Let’s go home.”

 

Hours later in afternoon’s dying light, Daenerys worried her legs wouldn’t hold her after she dismounted Drogon. She had never gone so long after flying without food or water. Even without the battle, she would have been half-dead with exhaustion. As it was, she felt closer to three-quarters dead. Daenerys locked her knees, lest the Dothraki whisper their khaleesi was weak. _I am blood of the dragon. I am stronger than mere fatigue_. Daenerys repeated that mantra, walking down the stair from the rampart, clinging to every ounce of her control. Her small council awaited her, all wearing identical expressions of concern—the captains had made their report then.

“The Queen!” Ser Jorah’s craggy voice shouted.

_I am blood of dragon_. Her legs trembled. The army shouted praise, chanting her name, her litany of titles as she made her careful way down the stairs from the ramparts. Cold sweat slicked her brow. The men parted in neat ranks, saluting as she crossed the bailey. She clenched her fists to keep her hands from trembling. Daenerys hadn’t strength enough to even muster a smile—it was all she could to keep from grimacing. The stairs to the keep daunted her, mocked her. With a steadying breath, she marched up each wide step, her head swimming. Her mouth was dry as dust. The doors of the great hall slammed shut behind her, and her last thought was one of relief.

 

She woke to blinding pain in her head, and Maester Jaron’s anxious face above her.

“Gods!” she said, startled. The maester appeared equally disquieted, scrabbling back from the bed as if afraid she would bite him.

“My apologies, Your Grace. You bumped your head when you fell, I was tending the wound,” he said. Daenerys touched her forehead, finding a lump near her hairline. The tips of her fingers came away with a smear of red.

“Will it scar?” she asked. Maester Jaron approached with a wad of damp gauze, wearing a reassuring smile. The press was only a faint sting.    

“No, Your Grace. It won’t even need a bandage; the bleeding has already stopped. However, I am concerned about these nosebleeds. How often do they occur?” he asked, offering another damp cloth. Daenerys accepted it, appreciating the rasp of warm cloth on her chapped face. It felt wonderful to scrub off the dried crust of blood.

“It is a consequence of strain. It has been a very taxing day,” she said. _Understatement of the decade._ A soft rap at the door.

“Come in,” she said.

The door opened to admit Missandei, Tyrion, and Sers Jorah and Barristan. Ghost brushed past the latter, trotting up licking her cheek. Direwolves had no regard for dignity.

“Hello, my friend,” she said, petting the smooth fur of his head. Unbidden, Ghost hopped up on the bed and lay with his head heavy on her knee. Daenerys scratched his ears, wishing with her whole heart that it was Jon in bed beside her.

“Your Grace, I have a meal for you,” Missandei said, wringing her hands in a gesture Daenerys recognized as a mix of anxiety and concern. Daenerys reached for her, and the girl flew into a hard embrace.

“I’m all right, dear friend. Thank you,” she said.

“You’ve the look of a hard-fought battle, khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said. Daenerys arched a brow in his direction.

“Is that so? Missandei, would you fetch the hand mirror?”

The girl returned swift with the gilt hand mirror. Daenerys’ stomach lurched at her reflection. The lump was an ugly purple knot on her forehead, her complexion chapped by wind and sun. A crust of dried blood lingered on her upper lip, and her eyes—the whites of her eyes were stained a thin red. Daenerys swallowed hard. _On second thought, I’m glad Jon isn’t here to see me in such a state. He’d have an apoplexy._

“I’ve seen better days,” she said with a wan smile, “Maester Jaron, when will my eyes return to normal?”

“Is your vision impaired in any way? Blurred? Headaches?”

“No, only a slight headache, better than it was.”

“I wouldn’t be vexed over it, Your Grace. Your eyes should be back to normal within a week. I will fetch a boiled seawater rinse that might ease the irritation. As long as you avoid the causative stressor. I shall leave willow bark tea and essence of nightshade for the headaches.” Daenerys snorted. That wasn’t likely. Restoring the bond with her dragons was paramount.

“Thank you, Maester,” she said, with a wave of dismissal. As the maester bowed and took his leave, Missandei set a massive tray over her lap.

“Ghost, off,” she said, nudging his head aside. The direwolf eyed the rasher of bacon on her plate, but obeyed with a parting lap of his tongue on her cheek.

Daenerys surveyed the bounty with relish. Bacon and mushrooms with butter, two loaves of sourdough bread, half of a roast chicken and a sugared plum for dessert. First Daenerys threw back the willow bark tea, grimacing at the bitterness. The food was hot and rich in her mouth, feeding the gnawing emptiness in her belly. Between bites, she recounted to her small council the events of the Battle Over Sunset Sea. Their disquiet was palpable.

“So this horn disrupted your link to the dragons?” Tyrion asked, rubbing his ruined nose. Daenerys gave a curt nod as she chewed.

“What did you do with it?” Ser Barristan asked, frowning.

“Drogon flew west and I threw it into the sea.”

“A wise choice, Your Grace. It is an evil thing,” Missandei said, fussily plumping the pillows behind her.

“I thought so,” Daenerys said.

“Do you suppose the ironborn captains led you into a trap? After all, how could their tally be so egregiously mistaken?” Tyrion asked in a low voice.

She paused, considering Tyrion’s question. The chicken was rich and juicy, hot grease sliding down her throat as she chewed the tender morsel. Daenerys delicately teased the meat from bone then wedged it between hunks of bread along with the earthy richness of mushrooms. Each bite made her feel steadier, stronger.

“It had occurred to me, yes. There are many among the ironborn who rankle under the thought of not only a woman on the Iron Throne, but of Asha as Lady of the Iron Islands.”

“It’s quite the gamble to risk your ire for the uncertain reward at the hand of Euron Greyjoy,” Ser Barristan said, stroking his white mustache.

“Taereg fought and bled for me. Each captain took losses in defeat Crow Eye’s fleet. By the way, where is he being held?”

“In the cages in the lower courtyard, Your Grace. Bound and guarded,” Ser Jorah said.

“Find a cell within the keep, Ser Jorah. A secure room with no windows, and have bound in irons. I do not want a slippery eel like Euron Crow Eye to foment ideas of rebellion amongst our prisoners.”

“As you say, khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said, bowing before he took his leave. Ser Barristan took his ease in the stool Ser Jorah had left.

“Speak your mind, Ser Barristan,” Daenerys said, draining her cup of watered wine. Tyrion stalled Missandei with a gesture, rising from his chair to refill Daenerys’ cup with a full measure himself. Daenerys murmured her thanks.

“I find it difficult to believe that the ironborn would seek to supplant you.”

“You are a loyal man, Ser. The machinations of most men would never occur to you. Lord Tyrion, have your spies heard any hint of this?”

“No, Your Grace. I will make some inquiries.”

“In the meantime, detain the captains. Carefully. Had my dragons not mustered the strength to resist Crow Eye, I would be dead and my dragons would be at his beck and call. I would have answers,” Daenerys said.

From there, the conversation ranged to the castle, rations, raven scrolls from across Westeros. Refreshment went a long way to restoring her, Daenerys felt clear-headed with the last of the headache ebbing away. Soon Lord Tyrion and Ser Barristan took their leave, allowing Missandei to tend Daenerys. While the bath had not been brought up, there was plenty hot water and soap. The last of her tension drained away as Missandei combed her clean hair into a loose silver fall, clean skin clad in warm wool smelling faintly of lavender.

“Are you well, Your Grace?” Missandei asked, amber-brown eyes dark with concern. Daenerys turned to smile at her friend.

“It was a close thing, Missandei. I nearly lost them. I could have died.” Saying the words aloud made them startlingly real. The delicious meal turned to ash in her belly. _Not yet. I have more yet to do_. She had nearly died, and Jon was leagues away on a mission of questionable worth. Gods, she missed him!

“Then I--” Missandei squeezed her hand, biting her lip to stop its trembling, “I am glad you triumphed.”

“As am I,” Daenerys said, her voice husky with emotion. A quiet moment passed between them, of genuine love borne from years of shared hardship.

“I never thought I would say it, but I’m glad Jon isn’t here. I look a fright. He might’ve fainted,” Daenerys said, with a wobbly grin.

“I think he would have barred the door and never let you out.” They shared a laugh at that, dispelling the heavy air of unrest.

“You don’t look a fright. Ser Jorah had the right of it, you look like you won a hard-fought battle,” Missandei said, her young face earnest. Daenerys squeezed her hand in thanks, stifling a yawn.

“Thank you, my friend. I think I will rest awhile.”

“Of course, Your Grace. You must be exhausted!” Missandei said, quick to guide her to the bed, tucking in the coverlets. Ghost padded after her, the bedframe whining beneath his weight. He curled into a ball with his head resting on her feet.

“Ring if you need me,” Missandei said, taking her leave. Stretching out full length beneath the warm coverlet, Daenerys faintly heard the door shut behind Missandei before sleep took her.

Daenerys woke, rolling over onto her side to glance at the window. The seamless darkness said it was the small hours of the night. She rose, shuffling to the privy closet. Pausing at the table, she chewed on a heel of half-stale bread, washing it down with wine. Instead of returning to bed, Daenerys dressed. Black leather trousers, tall boots, the fitted smoke-grey tunic. Her hair she plaited into a single braid. The jewelry chest was in Missandei’s quarters, and she did not wish to wake her. Unornamented would have to do. Daenerys lingered, then tucked a dirk into her boot.

“Come, Ghost,” she said. The direwolf, who watched her deliberate with understanding garnet eyes, rose from the bed to stand at her side.

“We’re going to find some answers,” she said. Passing her guards was inevitable, but Rakharo and Storm-Son made no comment when she commanded them to take her to Euron Greyjoy’s cell. Ghost stalked at her heels.

Two Unsullied stood guard outside a nondescript storeroom on the third floor. Ser Jorah had chosen well, she thought. Dark, dank and smelling of mold and decay, it had once held wine barrels for the lord’s table. Crow Eye slumped in the center of the room chained to a post.

“Get up, flea,” Rakharo said, yanking the iron chain around Crow Eye’s neck until he staggered upright.

“The gag, Storm-Son,” she said. The Unsullied captain drew his knife, slicing the cloth gag with uncharacteristic sloppiness. The blade sliced a shallow cut in Greyjoy’s cheek.

“Come for the taste of real man, girl? Slip out of that tunic and we’ll get started,” he said, a sneer twisting blue-stained lips. Daenerys’ hands fisted at her sides. A subtle tremor shivered through Ghost, his silent, rolling growl.

“I didn’t come here to listen to filth. If you continue, I’ll have Storm-Son slice off your tongue like those poor wretches who sail for you,” she said.

“Then why did you come here?”

Daenerys paused, considering. Seeking him out in the middle of the night spoke of how much she wanted the information he held. No use playing coy or prevaricating. In fact, she would relish the opportunity to use stronger methods of persuasion should he prove tight-lipped. _Torture and death would only be too fitting for you, Crow Eye, after the attempt on my children._

“On the deck of your ship, you said something about a pretty boy? What did you mean by that? My Hand seems to think you refer to him.” 

Crow Eye scoffed.

“Ah, your lover. You begged him not to go, didn’t you? But your boy is of the North to his bones. They protect their own,” he said, looking strangely at ease. With a subtle nod to Storm-Son, Daenerys approached, standing nose to nose with Crow Eye.

“You will tell me what you know of this boy you speak of. One way, or the other.” Greyjoy’s cruel mouth curved in a thin smile. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll try.”

“Khaleesi, let me kill this viper for you,” Rakharo said, dark eyes glittering dangerously.

“He will die either way, blood of my blood,” she said, not breaking Greyjoy’s hard blue stare. He chuckled.

“Not much incentive to tell you what I know then, is it?”

Daenerys allowed a thin smile to match his.

“You attempted to _enslave_ my children.” Venom coated the words, the merest hint of the depths of her loathing. _Blood of the dragon._

“I cannot countenance a world where you live. Tonight you will die. But if you speak truth to me, your death will be quick. A knife through your eye, painless. You will be given to the sea according to your Drowned God’s edicts. Refuse me, and I will find every means conceived by man to kill you slow.” Greyjoy smiled, a long toothy grin.

“A pity you chose to whore yourself to the northern boy. I would have enjoyed breaking that fiery temper of yours.”

A blur of movement, the glint of a blade. What--? How--?

The blade fell, and Daenerys screamed.              

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and I'm sorry for the cliffhanger.


	29. Part XXIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King's Landing

 

Part XXIX

 

 

“It stinks.” Jon’s first observation of King’s Landing was met with broad agreement. Tramping through the sewer, ankle-deep in semi-solid waste, Jon swallowed down the sick that threatened to choke him. In the wavering light of their lone candle, Brienne stood behind him and pressed a wad of cloth over her mouth and nose, eyes watering. It was still startling to see the dark brown dye to her hair.

Tyrion before leaving Casterly Rock had arranged a meeting place. Podrick would go to various taverns along the Hook, a thoroughfare leading from the Mud Gate to Aegon’s Hill. Every day, he would slip through Fishmonger Square to the mouth of the gate, under the pretense of eating fresh buttered eels for his midday meal. Easy enough to unobtrusively scan the crowds milling about the gate.

To a man, they dressed indistinctly, their weapons hidden in rucksacks. Longclaw was a hard lump between Jon’s shoulders. It made him itch to enter the capital with only a dirk within easy reach. If Brienne had not met Podrick at Joffery Baratheon’s disastrous wedding, Jon would have insisted on another guide.

“I caught a glimpse of you straight away, milady,” Podrick said with a bashful smile in Brienne’s direction. Brienne gifted the square-shouldered squire with a rare genuine smile. _She really is lovely when she smiles like that._

In pairs, Jon, Brienne, Ser Tallhart and the five others followed Podrick through a sewer grate into the capital. The Mud Gate and the Hook lay dangerously close to the Red Keep and the Lannister guards who patrolled there. Better to slip into the city somewhere they wouldn’t be noticed: Flea Bottom. Jon took short careful breaths through a damp handkerchief, though he imagined he could _taste_ the ungodly smell. Hunched over and creeping like rats through a sewer for an interminable hell. If only he could ease the burning muscles in his legs, if only he could drag in one clean breath of air . . . Blinking watering eyes, Jon muttered: “Seven hells, it stinks!”

“W—we’re almost through,” Podrick Payne said.

Podrick spoke truly, three more winding turns and—at last!—a glimmer of sunlight. Jon snuffed the candle at Podrick’s gesture. Jon’s gaze—clearer now that his eye had healed to a mere nasty bruise—flickered over the smears and clods clinging to stone walls. _On second thought, perhaps darkness was better._  It took another few turns for Podrick to find the grate he wanted. With startling agility, Podrick leapt up, dangling from his chosen grate. A couple muscular twists and the hinged grate swung free. Podrick landed with a muted splash and turned to Jon, offering his cupped hands as a cradle.

“Come on then, Grenn,” he said. Jon nodded, setting his dripping boot into Podrick’s cupped palms.

“Apologies,” Jon said, crawling up and out.

In addition to drilling in geography, topography, strategy and escape routes, he and Daenerys had assigned false names for each of the important players they were to discuss. In a ruthless place like Flea Bottom, any enterprising person would cut off a man’s ear for a decent meal. One mention of Robb Stark or Daenerys Targaryen would earn a cutthroat a king’s ransom.    

The sewer disgorged them in a dank, close corner of Flea Bottom. Rotted timber roofs hung overhead, nearly touching each other. Above a thin patch of blue sky was visible through a haze of woodsmoke. Jon stood, dragging in deep, careful breaths. The odor was slightly better, though the fug of wet wool, excrement, fish guts and tallow nearly made his water. He needn’t worry that smelling like a latrine would draw attention to them. The whole bloody city smelled that way.  

Brienne emerged next, followed by Ser Tallhart, his son Ed, Darren, Orwen, Elmar, and lastly Byran. Young and strong as an ox, Byran hung over the sewer grate and hauled up Podrick. The former squire scraped the worst of the muck from his hands in the dirt and settled the grate. Jon kicked dust along the edges and hinges to conceal recent use.

“Wouldn’t worry about that. Flea Bottom folk would turn a blind eye to a stabbing just to keep the goldcloaks out of the neighborhood. Trust me,” Podrick said, the set of his shoulders relaxed. Still, Jon kept his grip on the hidden hilt of his dirk.

“Very well. Our friend Duncan told you where we would like to go?” Jon said, with a narrow look.

‘Duncan’ was the alias Tyrion had chosen, an oblique jape likening him to Duncan the Tall. Jon secretly doubted Podrick’s devotion to the Order of Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things. After all, Daenerys had killed his cousin Chett in taking Casterly Rock. His uncle, the daring castellan Thorin Payne, was currently languishing in one of her prison cells. Beneath his fringe of dark hair, Podrick’s face was open and earnest. If he was a turncoat, he was a brilliant liar.

“Oh yes, Se—I mean Grenn. There is a tavern here in Flea Bottom where you can stay. At dusk, I can take you to the Street of Steel. But first I think we should stash your weapons.”

“Our weapons?” Ser Tallhart repeated.

“Just Grenn’s and Selly’s,” Podrick said, with a nervous glance at Jon.

He exhaled a frustrated breath through his nostrils. It made logical sense. Longclaw and Oathkeeper were distinctive blades—even without counting the fact they were Valyrian steel. Swaggering around Flea Bottom with a prized heirloom on his hip was the height of folly. The point was to remain inconspicuous. Jon wordlessly shrugged off his rucksack, loosening the drawstring wide enough to tug out his sword, wrapped in burlap and twine. Brienne followed suit. Podrick nodded, trotting down the shadowed lane to the city wall.

“I’ll need your help,” Podrick said, nodding toward the wall.

Byran glanced at Jon, and Jon gave a slight nod. Byran cracked his knuckles, setting work-scarred hands on the boulder Podrick indicated. Together the two of them heaved the stone wide enough to slip the two swords into a narrow cubby within the very walls of King’s Landing. Jon glimpsed half a dozen heavy sacks within, and heard the faint chime as Podrick set the swords in place. _Coin_. Podrick had enough gold to buy half of King’s Landing if he wanted—though a lowly squire-turned-spy surely wasn’t steward to such wealth. Jon reassessed Tyrion’s skill as spymaster. Byran and Podrick moved the stone back into place and even from where Jon stood half a pace away, he couldn’t find the crack to break the seal. Longclaw would be safe here. Podrick blew out a sigh, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“We can get you and Selly another blade before the Street of Steel tonight,” he said.

“Aye, that will have to do. Now let’s get to this tavern. When can I meet with our friend?” Jon asked, falling into step beside Podrick.

“Duncan sent me our friend Luwin’s letter. When we’re ready, you can seek the Seven Stars tavern near Pisswater Bend.” Luwin—Robb’s chosen name—for their childhood maester.

“Gods,” Ed cursed beneath his breath, “even the names of their bloody streets are revolting. A disgusting city.”

There were low grunts and chuckles of agreement among his men. Jon couldn’t help but agree. His first impression of King’s Landing hadn’t endeared him to it. _Perhaps it_ would _be best for Dany to burn it down and start anew._  

The squire led them through the maze of filthy streets, dodging nightsoil flung from upper windows with practiced ease. Smoke hung in a gauzy film in the air. People milled about the tanner’s sheds or hurried in pairs or loose groups, slump-shouldered and shifty-eyed. A shepherd ushered a herd of fat black pigs down the street. Dirty children sat like skinny crows from upper windows, pelting passerby with manure and stones, cawing with laughter when they found their mark. A wizened woman tended a cauldron outside, tending Flea Bottom’s renowned bowls of brown. The stench only intensified. Jon tried to keep his posture loose, his gaze indifferent. Too tense, too focused, he would stick out as a soldier.

“Not far now,” Podrick said, ducking beneath laden clotheslines.

Jon kept pace, his gaze wandering to the poor wretches clustered on street corners. The crippled and blind clustered in sunny corners, gripping alms-cups with grimy hands. Young and old, with dirty bandages and broken crutches, their reedy voices called out a refrain: “Alms? Alms? Spare a copper?”

Men and women ravaged by recent war or born in misery. It made him think of Bran, climbing swift and sure before his fall. Moved by pity, Jon rummaged for coppers from his money purse. He picked his way over the tangle of sprawled limbs, scattering the coin in each cup.    

“Bless you, ser!”

“Thank you!”

A young man with a cloth wound around his eyes grasped his wrist with surprising strength.

“Seven blessing to you!” he said, his skin feverishly warm.

“Think nothing of it,” Jon said, shrugged off the grasping hand. He picked his way around puddles to where Podrick and his men waited.

“That was kind of you, Grenn,” Podrick said.

“For your brother,” Ser Tallhart said with a crisp nod. The northmen each nodded in accord. Their loyalty filled Jon with a deep sense of gratitude.

A couple streets over, down a cramped lane, they arrived at the tavern. Called The Red Door, it stood crammed between a tannery and tenement. The paint which gave the tavern its name was flaked and peeling, sun-bleached to a rusty hue. Jon felt a lurch, smote by a wave of emotion. Gods, he _missed_ Dany. Inside, the room was sparsely populated. A few determined drunks slumped at the bar, several more were crammed into booths. Podrick broke off to speak with the innkeep. Brienne slouched, attempting to disguise her height, fidgeting with her dyed hair.

“You look fine,” Jon whispered. Brienne gave him a thin smile, her sword hand flexing at her side. Jon understood the feeling. He missed Longclaw’s reassuring weight at his hip.

“Your rooms are ready, you’re free to go up. Unless you’d like to eat. I’ll come back at dusk,” Podrick said, handing over the room keys. Jon cast a glance to the watery stew and grainy bread. Wary of the bowls of brown, Jon shook his head.  

“I think I’ll stick with hardtack and jerky for now,” Jon said.

“Suit yourself, Grenn. I, for one, could use a hot meal,” Ser Tallhart said. Ed and Darren followed suit, squeezing into an empty booth. Jon shrugged, climbing the narrow stair to the rooms. Brienne and the others followed. Renting the room was cheap, each of them had a room to themselves.

“Until dusk, then,” Brienne said.

“Until dusk,” Jon said, twisting the key in the lock. Jon set down his rucksack with a relieved sigh. The tavern was sparsely furnished, a narrow bed with two thin quilts, a washstand, and one rickety chair. Jon sank into the chair, kneading the sore muscles of his shoulders.

“What I wouldn’t give for a bath,” he said to himself.

There was no bathhouse in the tavern—not that he would dare chance stripping down in a place like Flea Bottom, but perhaps he could find water to wash with. As if in answer, a maid soon shouldered her way into the room, slamming down the ewer of hot water, tossing a dish of lye soap beside it. She was gone in a flurry of homespun. After an abbreviated bath, scrubbing the worst of the muck from his clothes, and an unpleasant meal of hardtack, Jon stretched out on the narrow bed. A watch of sleep would do him good. Jon closed his eyes, hoping those startlingly vivid nightmares wouldn’t plague him.

A loud rap at the door woke him. Blearily, Jon staggered from the bed in murky semi-darkness. He cursed, fumbling for the striker and candle.

“Who is it?” Jon said, as the wick caught.

“Theo. It’s time. Get your arse out here,” Ser Tallhart said, sounding faintly amused.

Jon was content knowing the grizzled knight would lop off a finger if Jon asked him to, otherwise his dignity amongst his men would be enough for him to question if they trusted his leadership. Years of fighting alongside them, first with Robb, then with Daenerys, the men could see his judgement was sound, his mettle in battle proven. So Jon let the jesting tone slide, staggering into his boots, buckling his leather armor in place and belting his dirk.

He paused, yanking his unruly hair back with a leather thong. On pain of death, Daenerys made him promise not to cut it, and he regretted that oath on nights like tonight. In an unfamiliar city, he needed every sense as sharp as possible.

Jon shrugged on his brown, homespun cloak to conceal his armor and twisted the lock open to find Ser Tallhart and Ed waiting.

“The others are still sleeping.”

“Let’s roust them. Podrick can meet us outside,” Jon said.

Jon’s wariness of Podrick proved unfounded; he made an excellent guide. Crisscrossing between side-streets and alleyways, he led them south, parallel to the Street of the Sisters. Through the tangle of close-packed buildings built in red-tinged marbled stone, Brienne pointed out where the Sept of Baelor had once stood.

“A blackened crater now,” Podrick whispered with a shake of his head. Podrick motioned them to stop, peering around a street corner. Drunken laughter reached their ears, along with a tuneless rendition of The Bear and the Maiden Fair. A rowdy group spilled from a nearby tavern. 

“ _The bear smelled the scent on summer air/The bear!”_

Jon peered around the corner, blinking into the light of hung lanterns. Throngs of people clustered at the mouths of taverns, some weaving amongst shops. The cobbles were swept clean, the scents of baking bread and spilled ale perfumed the air. Lords and ladies swanned about in their silks and furs, servants and guards trailing behind. The drunken group staggered through a knot them, still singing.  

_“The bear!/All black and brown and covered with hair!”_ No goldcloaks to be seen, thank the gods.

“The queen hasn’t ordered it rebuilt?” Byran asked. A boy from White Harbor, he’d been raised in the light of the Seven. Living without a sept was utterly foreign to him.     

“The Faith Militant and the High Sparrow were killed along with the Tyrells when she destroyed the sept. Who of the faith is left to challenge her? It’s a warning to those who would cross her.”

“And they call Daenerys the Mad Queen,” Jon muttered.

“Let’s go. Quick and quiet. Goldcloaks will be thick on the ground around the fancy shops on the Street of Steel.” Podrick motioned for them to follow, darting across the square like a shadow. Jon clapped a hand against the sword Podrick had found him to mute the noise.  The weather was with them, a thick layer of cloud obscured the full moon, leaving only a few lonely lanterns offering their wan light.  

Another swerve, creeping across two back alleys. Darren nearly barreled past when Podrick pulled up, hugging the warped timber wall. The clatter of mail-clad men on the cobbles was close. _Too close._ Jon hauled the back of Darren’s tunic, pressing a finger over his lips, heartbeat pounding in his ears. The muddle of marching steps paused. Jon gripped the hilt of his sword, nodding in reassurance to his men. Their voices were muted by their helms—he could only understand pieces of what they were saying.

“—the Kingslayer said to--” his comrade interrupted him.

“No . . . near the Dragonpit, for certain,” the other said. Jon scowled, waiting in baited breath. At last, the men continued their patrol, moving past them with a spangled glitter of gold.

“Do you have any idea what they were talking about, Pod?” Brienne asked. The squire’s eyes were round and dark, like shiny stones in the gloomy dark.

“N—n—no! I have no idea! I swear it! But if the Kingslayer was given charge of Cersei’s armies . . . d—do you think he has taken charge of the goldcloaks?”

“It’s possible. As far as I know, their pet Janos Slynt is still Commander of the City Watch,” Brienne said.

“What do we do, J—I mean Grenn?” Ser Tallhart asked.

Jon leaned against the wall and sank into a crouch, considering. They were so close. A street over and then up Visenya’s Hill, and they would be at the top of the Street of Steel. It would take no more than an hour to wreak havoc on the scorpions. In and out like thieves in the dark. But if Jamie Lannister and his men were vigilant against possible saboteurs, that was a different scenario than they were prepared for. Settled in his decision, Jon stood.

“A different plan. Podrick, contact Duncan’s friends in the city to see what we can learn. I won’t have us walk into a trap,” he said, thumping the pommel of his sword for emphasis. The squire nodded.

“It’ll take me an hour, I’ll be back!” he said, disappearing into the night.

It took Pod less time, he found them chewing hardtack and sipping from their waterskins.

“No patrols near the Street of Steel, though there is some commotion near the Dragonpit,” Podrick said.

“What do we do? Go back to the tavern?” Darren asked.

“Not quite. We can still cause some trouble for our Lannister friends,” Jon said with a grin. The idea burst into his mind, quick and brilliant. As he turned it this way and that, seeking flaws, excitement crackled through him. This could work!

“How far to the docks, Pod?”

“Not far, we can cut through the city easy,” Podrick said with a shrug. Ser Tallhart scowled at the toes of his boots.

“What are you thinking, Grenn?” he asked.

“I think we can take a page from those Golden Company dogs.”

A rowdy dock like the one at the mouth of the Blackwater was a perfect stage. Drunken captains, inattentive dockhands, and absent goldcloaks made a recipe for opportunity for Ser Tallhart, Ed, Orwen and Byran. Jon watched the flames lick up the side of a ship in eager orange tongues, as the mast fell in a shower of embers, another ship caught. And then another, and then a dockhouse was aflame. From the roof of a tenement, Jon, Darren, Brienne, and Elmar watched with matching smirks. The great bells in Maegor’s Keep rang out in a frantic din. Below, men scrambled about like an upset anthill.

It wasn’t long before the rest of his men followed Podrick up the ladder, sooty and triumphant. Jon clapped their shoulders in excited greeting. At last, a tangible blow against this hellhole of a city!

“That should take care of the goldcloaks,” Jon said, “Elmar, Darren, Orwen, I want you three to follow Pod to the Dragonpit. See what the goldcloaks were talking about, then double back. We will go to the Street of Steel. Duncan said most of the scorpions were stored below Tobho Mott’s shop. Meet back at the tavern if our plan goes to shit.”

“So we destroy the scorpions. What’s to stop the smiths from making more?” Brienne asked.

“We destroy what they have and throw whatever tools we can get our hands on into the sea. Much as she’d like to believe it, Cersei’s resources aren’t inexhaustible. It will take her time and effort to replace what we take. Any distraction or delay benefits us. Besides, Da—Irri plans to attack as soon as winter thaws, maybe after midwinter if the winds are kind. The more we destroy, the safer she’ll be later,” Jon said. He rose, adjusting the sword at his hip.

“Come, that fire won’t distract them all night. Let’s move.”

It felt good to run. The burn in his muscles, the cool air in his lungs, darting through the shadows. A dim thought missed Ghost’s bulk at his side. Jon followed Pod, measuring his breaths as they paused at the peak of Visenya’s Hill. Podrick and Ser Tallhart’s son Ed huddled in the crevice of an alley to keep watch.

Below meandered the Street of Steel, hot forges quenched to a sullen orange glow. Shadows lay pared into jagged shapes on the cobblestones. Jon dragged in a deep breath, willing his heartbeat to stop pounding. The dark was eerily silent, save for a random creak or flutter. Through gesture, he urged his men to fan out, swords drawn. Tobho Mott was a talented smith, rich on Lannister gold. If Jon could hazard a guess, Cersei’s Hand Qyburn worked closely with Mott to devise the scorpion plans. Jon shrugged off a rucksack from his shoulder.

“All the tools you can carry,” Jon whispered, handing the sacks to Byran and Brienne. Another impulse whispered to light a fire and watch it burn. Jon squelched the thought. One fire could be an accident. To add another at a strategic location would breed suspicion.

After some poking around, Jon and Ser Tallhart found the storeroom. The padlock was impressive. He’d have to break it. Jon poised the pommel of his sword above the lock.

“Jon,” Ser Tallhart said in his ear, thrusting a squat hammer into his hands. _Better_.

Jon steadied his hand. He struck once, the ring of metal on metal cringingly loud. The lock held. Jon struck again, hard enough to make the blow rattle up his arm. The lock held, obstinate. Sweat beaded on his brow. He couldn’t risk fumbling about making enough noise to wake the dead! Jon grit his teeth and struck a third time, watching in satisfaction as the lock fell. He and Ser Tallhart slipped inside.

In the dim light of their lantern, rows of barbed scorpions gleamed like animal’s teeth. _Right. Let’s get to work._ Jon nodded to Ser Tallhart and the two of them wove through the scorpions, shredding bowlines, smashing pins and dissembling levers until the machine was a useless lump of iron and wood. They worked feverishly. Jon’s hands shook. Every noise raised the fine hairs on his arms, made him hold his breath, waiting.

The muted scrape of footsteps.

Jon froze. Ser Tallhart was deep in the storeroom, behind him. Jon blew out a breath, drawing his dirk. His eyes adjusted to the dark, he made out the blacker shape lurking close. Jon darted out, intending to stab--

“Gods! It’s me!” Byran said, holding up his hands. Jon breathed out a whispering laugh.

“Forgive me. What is it?”

“We found more scorpions down the street,” Byran whispered, shifting the laden rucksack on his back.

“Run the tools to Ed. He can make runs to the wall to throw them into the sea.”

“Right. Br—Selly’s already taken two loads,” Byran said.

“Excellent. Any word from the others?”

“Not yet.”

“We’ll have to keep working without them. Theo?” Jon hissed.

“Here,” Ser Tallhart said in a low voice, appearing around a line of scorpions.

Slipping quick and quiet, Jon crept out. His gaze darted to and fro, finding nothing in the murky shadows. The clouds above held, blocking all moonlight. He waited, straining his ears for the telltale music of mail and hobnailed boots. Ser Tallhart squeezed his shoulder and the three of them slipped down the street. A soft whistle took their attention. Jon found Brienne crouched in the doorway.

“We’ll do what we can and then get out of here. Let’s not push our luck,” Jon whispered. The three of them nodded. This time Jon broke the padlock on his first try and inside they made quick work of the scorpions.

“Let’s go,” Jon said. Brienne and Byran fell in behind him. Jon wiped sweat from his brow.

“Theo? Let’s go!” Brienne murmured. Jon peered into the blackness, trying to discern his shape. A shuffle in the dark.

“Theo?”

Ser Tallhart staggered from behind a cluster of scorpions. His face was dark, was that oil on his face--? The truth sang through Jon in a sharp, hot jolt. _Blood_.

“Run!” Ser Tallhart wheezed, collapsing against Brienne. Jon stared at the crossbow fletching in his back for a handful of heartbeats.

“Go!” Jon shouted, heaving Ser Tallhart’s stocky body over his shoulder. Byran staggered for the door, Brienne and Jon at his heels. Outside, they stared down a dozen armed men. Not armored, but their swords gleamed cruel in the darkness. He couldn’t see a sigil, or any mark on their gambesons. It didn’t matter who they were, only that they were intent on killing them. Byran bellowed a war cry, charging with sword in hand.

“Byran!” Jon shouted, struggling with Ser Tallhart’s slack weight. A wet gargle as Jon set him down meant he was still alive. Byran cut down one, then two, whirling around to decapitate a third. Jon cried out as a sword blow nearly cleaved Byran in half at the waist. Entrails spilled out in a hot rush of blood, leaving Byran clutching them. As one, he and Brienne charged. Jon’s sword was in his hand, eager and keen.

Back to back, he and Brienne feinted and thrust, hacked and parried. As one man fell, Jon glimpsed a sigil on his breast. A snarling Lannister lion. Jon blocked a heavy overhand blow, the energy singing up his arms. With a vicious twist, he knocked the blade back and opened his throat with a backhand blow. Silence fell, save for their harsh breathing. Jon flicked the blood from his blade, glancing at Brienne. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

“Selly, get Byran. We have to go. _Now_.” Panting, Brienne could only manage a nod.

Jon ran to where Ser Tallhart sat, slumped against a wall. He tried not to notice his pallor, the growing pool of black around him.

“Come, my friend. We’ll get you to a healer. They’ll stitch you up in a trice,” Jon said, muscles shrieking as he heaved his dead weight up and over the fulcrum of his shoulder.

“Gods. Leave me, Jon . . . leave me. I’ll only . . . only slow you down,” he gasped. Warm blood wet the leathers at Jon’s shoulder. So much blood . . .

“None of that now. Let’s go!” Jon gasped. He saw the horror on Ed’s face as he trotted up carrying his father’s bleeding body. But there was no time for explanations or fear. Podrick motioned for them to follow.

It was through the sewers again. Foul air curled in his starved lungs as they sloshed on. Jon tripped, falling to his knees in the muck. His gorge rose, and he retched all that remained in his stomach in gasping spasms, arms cradling Ser Tallhart’s weight across his shoulders. The world lurched beneath him, a deafening subterranean boom. Cracks fissured along the stone walls.

“What in the seven hells was that?” Brienne asked, pale and sweating beneath Byran’s weight. Thank the gods he was unconscious in her arms, Jon could barely see the rise and fall of his chest.

“I’ve heard that before,” Podrick said, pale as a shade, “ _Wildfire_.”

 

Jon pushed all other thought from his mind. All that was left was the rancid air in his lungs, the burn of his aching body, one weary foot in front of the other. It seemed an eternity passed in stinking darkness. Tunnel after tunnel was flooding or caved in, forcing them to switch back and try for another route. Podrick at last ushered them out of the sewer as dawn crept golden fingers across the horizon. Even Flea Bottom’s filth was a relief.

“This way,” Podrick said, his face nearly grey with exhaustion. They picked their way through a narrow thoroughfare, stepping over the clustered cripples. Here, the cold, brisk dawn was wreathed with steam from cauldrons of boiling laundry.  Podrick found a door and gave a knock, one knock, pause, then three more in rapid succession.

A woman of middling age heavy-set and rosy-cheeked opened the door, squinting at Pod.

“Mother save us. Get in here,” she said, with an ushering gesture.

“I—I’m sorry Tansy. I didn’t know where else to go--” She brushed off Pod’s explanations, grasping Jon by the arm.

“Quiet now, lad. Here, set him down! You there, set him down on the floor!” she said, motioning to Brienne. Jon eased Ser Tallhart down to lay on his side as gently as he could. He didn’t wake, though Jon could see he was still breathing, thank the gods.

“Will he be all right?” Ed asked, kneading his father’s cold hand between his own. Tansy’s small, soft hands made quick work of Ser Tallhart’s armor and shirt. The bolt had caught him in the center of the back, blunted by his leather gambeson.

“There’s no way to know, lad. Let me work,” Tansy said. She turned to where Byran lay, sweat-shined eyelids fluttering, his breathing shallow. Exposed to the harsh light of day, his ruined abdomen made Jon’s gorge rise. Jon’s knees quivered like a foal’s, he clung to his strength by his fingernails. Nevertheless, Jon knelt, grasping Byran’s hand.

“It’s no use. J—Just give me something . . . something for the pain.”

“Courage, man. Let her work,” Jon said, with a nod. Tansy shoved Jon’s shoulder.

“You lot get out back and wash up. Give me time to tend them,” Tansy said. Despite her brisk tone, there was compassion in her careworn face. Jon shook himself, scrubbing his face with grimy hands.  

“Right. Ed, stay here and guard them. Selly, go back to the tavern and see if you can find the others. Pod, see what you can find out about the wildfire.”

“What will you do?” Brienne asked. Jon’s smile was knife-thin.

“My guess is we will have to cut our time in the capital short. I’m going to the Seven Stars to meet with our friend.”

“I won’t let you go alone,” Brienne said with a mutinous scowl. Jon heaved a sigh.

“Fine, we’ll both go to the tavern, and then on to Seven Stars.”         

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer Jon-centric chapter, I hope the breakneck pace wasn't too jarring.


	30. Part XXX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions and answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to all the lovely commenters! A shout out to Kellersab for Missandei's poetry. The Reunion should be within the next chapter or so!

Part XXX

 

 

“Gods,” Daenerys said, still shaking with reaction, “How was it possible for Crow Eye to get free from his chains?”

Rakharo skirted the sticky pool of blood still trickling from the ragged wound at Crow Eye’s throat—torn open by Ghost. Both eyes were empty and staring, his face frozen in a rictus of surprise. The direwolf in question fastidiously licked the blood from his lips. Rakharo knelt, lifting Crow Eye’s arm. The wrist was dislocated to free it from the shackle, stiff fingers still clutching the sock knife. The blade was tiny, maybe the length of Daenerys’ index finger, but true, dark steel. At such close range, caught unawares, Crow Eye could have easily killed her had Ghost not intervened.

The thought did not puncture the numb cold wrapped around her. _Will it ever end?_ Daenerys heaved a sigh. It wearied her to very marrow at times. She longed for peace, not this endless bloodshed.    

“This flea was determined to kill you,” Rakharo said, spitting on Crow Eye’s face.

“Someone helped him. Ser Jorah would not leave a man to be questioned without searching him. Gather everyone who touched this man, Taereg who took him from his ship, the man who shackled him, the guard who led him here, the maid who gave him water. I want all of them questioned, blood of my blood,” she said, steel in her tone.

“Yes, khaleesi,” Rakharo said, murder stamped on his features. He clapped his chest in rough salute and loped from the room with a shadowcat’s grace.

“Storm-Son, have one of your Unsullied throw this one into the mining tunnels for the rats,” she said, nudging Crow Eye’s twisted body with one toe.

“As you say, so this one will do,” Storm-Son said. Daenerys marched from the storeroom, Storm-Son trailing behind. Ghost nudged her and Daenerys found a weary smile.

“I didn’t forget to thank you, my friend,” she said, scratching his ruff, “I owe you a side of venison. Perhaps a boar?”

Daenerys made her way down one hall, and then another, at last finding the stairway she wanted, lit by torches set in gold sconces.

“You may stay here, Storm-Son,” she said. A frown creased his hard features, his knuckles white on the haft of his spear. 

“ _Jelmāzmo,_ after the maggot tried to--” The effort of arguing one of her commands made him break out in a sweat. The warm brown skin of his face gleamed in the torchlight.

“I am safe with my children, and with Ghost. I need a moment alone. Please,” she said softly. Her soul felt as fragile as an eggshell—she needed time and solitude to reassemble her armor. The torches crackled as Storm-Son considered.

“I wait here,” Storm-Son said. Daenerys nodded.

“Ghost, stay,” Daenerys said, pressing the flat of her hand on the dense fur on Ghost’s chest. She descended a couple steps, and Ghost followed.

“No, Ghost. _Stay_ ,” she said more firmly, holding his garnet-red gaze. Turning, she made her way down the steps to the crags where her children slept. Ghost ambled after her. Daenerys shook her head.

“Suit yourself.”

Tyrion told her these were once sky cells similar to the ones in the Eyrie, open-faced with a slight slant toward the sheer drop into the Sunset Sea. Then Jamie had once made the mistake of jumping from a cell into the water as a child. It was hard for Daenerys to picture her father’s killer as a carefree child who jumped from such a height on a dare. Or how the venomous Cersei had wept with fear watching her twin fall.

On any other night, each of her children would enjoy their kills in separate crags. Tonight, they curled on broken marble tiles together, a mountain of scales and tangled wings. Scorched bones littered the floor. Drogon lifted his head, uttering a low clicking growl of greeting. Rhaegal opened one bronze-gold eye, a puff of hot smoky air enveloping her. Viserion stretched his long neck out toward her, butting her gently with his snout. Cream scales gleaming like ivory in the torchlight, Viserion eyed Ghost. Daenerys was struck by the image of dragon and direwolf regarding each other as equals. She waited, poised to command Viserion, but her dragon dismissed Ghost with a hot gust of air. 

“My darlings,” Daenerys breathed, at last letting the tension unwind.

Her knees gave out, the cold seeping through her trousers. Drogon and Rhaegal growled, trying to struggle closer to her, enveloping her in a tangle of hot scales, smoke and love. Daenerys pressed her forehead to Drogon’s neck, hands clutching Rhaegal’s wing. The tears that hovered close washed over her, until she was weeping in great, wracking sobs. Where they touched her children, her tears evaporated in a hiss of steam. Daenerys clutched Drogon until her arms quivered, dragging in deep breaths the sobbing ebbed. She drew a hiccupping breath, feeling wrung out like a dishrag. A gnawing hollowness persisted within, a Jon-shaped emptiness.

Gingerly, she reached for their bond—so terribly delicate still. Garbled images filtered through her mind’s eye, too fast for her to understand, or even discern which of her children gave them. The sea, her fall, pain, something close to a dragon’s fear, pain, _pain_ , the horrible sound of the horn, the cold, cruel sea, blood, Jon’s face. Daenerys flinched, reminded once again of Jon’s absence. She pressed tranquility toward them, murmuring soothing words. Daenerys crooned and rocked and sang a half-forgotten song until the tide quieted into a tranquil loop of thought.  

Ghost wormed his way into their midst, offering his own furred warmth. Daenerys curled on the hard pallet of Rhaegal’s curled tail with Ghost at her back. Drogon settled at her head, drawing her beneath the warm, veined tent of his wing. Daenerys slipped off to sleep, surrounded by fire made flesh and a son of the true North, for the moment content.

It was no surprise she dreamt of Jon.

_His shy smile, the roughness of his hands, the sweetness of his mouth. His smile was like spring and sunshine._

_“What makes you smile so?” she asked him, nestled together in hammock, the wind sighing through the trees._

_“You, my love. So beautiful,” he said, cupping the weight of her pregnant belly between them. Joy shivered through her, sharp and bright and glorious. Daenerys pressed her hand wonderingly to her belly, feeling the pulse of life within._

_“Jon! Jon, look--”_

“ _Jelmāzmo_. Wake up, my queen,” Storm-Son’s voice shattered the sweet dream into glittering shards. Daenerys nearly wept at the loss of it. She opened bleary eyes, finding her Unsullied captain staring down a snarling Viserion. The sky was the soft grey of predawn, the rasp of the sea a soothing melody. Daenerys staggered up, her back aching at the awkward position. Despite that, she felt rested and at peace.

“ _Lyks_ , Viserion,” she said, running a soothing hand along his neck and horns.

“What is it, Storm-Son?”

“Lord Tyrion sent word to find you. Raven scroll from King’s Landing,” he said.

Hope and joy and fear rushed through her in a cresting wave. _Jon!_ Daenerys stamped feeling back into her numbed feet, murmuring love words to her children. Ghost was a warm bulwark at her shoulder. Daenerys tentatively reached for their bond, clinging to the connection as she followed Storm-Son up the flights of stairs to the lord’s rooms. It held, wavering at the edges. Her children’s thought felt muted, their emotions blunted. Satisfied, Daenerys released the link. Some progress had been made at least, and no nosebleeds to worry over.

Storm-Son opened the door and breathless, Daenerys entered the room to find her small council waiting.

“Your Grace, are you--” Ser Jorah began. Daenerys forestalled his words with an impatient gesture.

“I’m fine. What word?” she said, the words whipping out crisp and sharp. She bit back the impulse to snatch the raven scroll from Tyrion’s hand, yearning to touch something he had touched.

“Word from Robb Stark, my queen. He says his men are in position awaiting word from within the city. Duckfield’s intelligence was apparently false. Stark says he has seen no sign of the pretender or his men,” he said.

Daenerys nearly wilted with disappointment, made doubly so by the mention of the pretender. She would have liked to trounce him in battle. She covered it by pouring a measure of watered wine and sipping slowly. The crisp cold soothed her parched throat, sore from the previous days’ screams.

“A disappointment, though no great surprise. Any word from Asha?”

“Yes. She is in command of the garrison at Dragonstone,” Ser Barristan said.

“Tell her I had the pleasure of meeting her uncle. Send the details of the ships we obtained from Euron’s fleet. She will know best how to disseminate them. When we take King’s Landing, we will need precise coordination and timing.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Tyrion said. Conversation ranged to questioning the ironborn captains, the attempted assassination by Euron Crow Eye, his cryptic words about Jon. Ghost, bored with the discussion, stretched out on the carpet and began grooming himself.

“His intent was to rattle you, Your Grace. Tempt you into facing him alone,” Tyrion said, swirling his wine in his cup. Daenerys bit back her irritation at such a pandering comment.

“I know that,” she snapped, “But Euron Greyjoy has been sailing the Sunset Sea for years. How would he know Jon was riding with us?” A contemplative silence answered her.

“Shade of the evening has been known to cause visions, Your Grace. A charlatan such as the Greyjoy could cobble together a tale to suit his purposes,” Lady Melisandre offered, her ruby pulsing at her throat. Daenerys nodded, dissatisfied with the answer.

“Well he’s dead, so we will never know. And Jon is in that foul city all but naked and I cannot--” she broke off, swallowing the terror with some effort. She read sympathy in their eyes and couldn’t muster the will to accept it with grace. She clenched her jaw hard enough to make her teeth hurt. 

“What is our status on the ironborn?” she asked in an appropriately steely tone. Her small council’s relief was palpable as they settled to the task at hand.        

“Those who were in contact with Greyjoy have been detained,” Ser Jorah said. Daenerys nodded.

“Ser Barristan, you and Lady Melisandre question the captains and possible saboteurs. I want answers on who would betray me.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Melisandre said with a graceful nod.

Discussion then ranged to the raids and drilling of the fighting men, supplies and livestock for the castle and men, the progress of the bunks and stables under construction in the tunnels beneath the Rock for when the true cold came. Silence fell as serving girls bustled in and out, laying out breakfast. The tub stood empty before the fire and Daenerys eyed it with longing.

“We will leave you to rest, Your Grace,” Tyrion said with a grin. Daenerys returned the gesture with genuine affection. Perhaps pampering would go a long way to restoring her peace of mind.

“Bring me any raven scrolls from King’s Landing at once. I spend the remainder of the day touring the castle. Then I intend to spend the evening with my sons otherwise.” Flying and time with her children would hopefully mend their bond.

“Of course,” Tyrion said.

Missandei and her serving ladies drew a bath. Daenerys spent a lovely half hour scrubbing all memory of the previous days from her skin, and another allowing the heat and steam to loosen the knots in her muscles. Clean and dry, clad in a fresh tunic and trousers, she leaned back into Missandei’s gentle, capable hands. Daenerys closed her eyes and watched amber patterns dance, relishing the soft scrape of the comb, the sleek caress of rose oil. Missandei began to sing, in a sweet voice clear as cut crystal.

“ _A lovely lass of silver hair/a dragon so noble and strong/came to reclaim the home she long thought gone.”_ Daenerys opened her eyes, seeking Missandei’s amber-brown ones. She wore an expression of embarrassed pleasure, rosy color staining her cheeks. Daenerys smiled, encouraging her to continue. It was quite the task to make a song lyrical in two languages, but as Missandei sang in Valyrian, the syllables flowed like a river of honey. From his place by the fire, Ghost’s tufted ears pricked at the music.

_“For upon that cursed iron chair/was a mad lion who made all despair/But then the maiden fair/met the noble wolf there/a union of ice and fire/they say a love of burning dragon’s fire--”_ Pain pierced her joy at the thought of Jon, a soul-deep longing.

“That’s beautiful, Missandei. I didn’t know you wrote poetry,” Daenerys said.

“A little. Valyrian is a language made for poetry,” she said with a bashful smile.

“I love it. I would be honored to hear more when you wish.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

They chatted of insignificant things like silly girls as Missandei deftly braided and pinned her hair into an intricate pattern.

“Thank you, my friend,” Daenerys said, taking her hand.

“You should rest, Your Grace,” Missandei said, with a fervent squeeze of her captive hand.

“Perhaps later. There is work to be done,” Daenerys said, rising.

“Send a runner to have my silver tacked. I will tour the castle and ride with the next scouting party.”

Riding her silver was a pleasure of marching she missed. The warmth and strength of her mare beneath her, her long, liquid stride, the pleasant tension of long-unused muscles. Ghost enjoyed the run as well. With his size, he could keep pace with the horses with ease. His white coat was easily distinguished amongst the rattling yellowed grasses and brown-striped stone canyons of the West. Rakharo, Kovarro, and Aggo surrounded her, a mixed group of Dothraki and Westerosi ranging behind them. Grey Worm’s Unsullied had reported seeing fires in the hills to the southeast, just beyond Lannisport.

“You have earned another braid, khaleesi. That maggot raised a hand against you,” Kovarro said, nudging his bay even with her silver’s stirrup. Daenerys nodded toward Ghost.

“It was Ghost’s victory, Kovarro. He killed Crow Eye.”

“The wolf is bloodrider also, khaleesi. Bonded to Snow of the Wolf Tent as you are bonded with your dragons. The victory is yours,” Aggo said.

“I owe you gifts for your loyalty, _Qoy Qoyi_ ,” she said with a thin smile. Kovarro returned the smile with his own.

“With any luck, we’ll find some of the weaklings to slay.”

The patrol was a quiet one, to Kovarro’s dismay. Riding with her men, amid Rakharo’s jests with the brisk wind and her silver beneath her, the heaviness in her soul lifted. The sun began its trek into the sea in a fiery conflagration of colors as they rode into the Lion’s Mouth. She anticipated a hot supper and an evening spent with her children. Her silver’s unshod hooves clattered on the stone, followed by the Westerosi’s heavier, ringing clop. Daenerys slowed her horse’s prancing with a nudge of rein as Tyrion waddled up at swift clip. Daenerys smile faded.

“What is it, Lord Hand?” Her stomach churned.

“A raven from King’s Landing, Your Grace,” he said, his expression grave. Her silver sensed her unease, tossing her head. Daenerys snatched the parchment from his hand. Her heart leapt up to her throat as she recognized Jon’s square, heavy-handed script, scrawled with some haste.

_‘Valar Morghulis. Kingswood, five leagues east of the kingsroad. Come quickly.’_

 

~

 

“I’ll be just outside the door,” Brienne said for the third time. The nerves in Jon’s belly were quelled by a near-manic surge of humor. He bit the inside of his lip to stifle a laugh.

“Give me until the count of one hundred. If I don’t call for you, come in,” Jon said, resting his hand on Longclaw’s pommel. He felt reassured by the weight against his hip. In the scrum of scouring The Red Door tavern for the t others, Pod had meanwhile fetched both Longclaw and Oathkeeper as well a heavy sack of silver. Of Darren, Elmar and Orwen, there was no sign.

Outside Flea Bottom, the city seethed. The Dragonpit now joined the Sept of Baelor in ashes. The wildfire cache in the tunnels beneath the city had detonated, killing an untold number. _Fire and Blood._ In that, at least, there was a bit of luck. If the Lannisters had questioned soldiers dying on the Street of Steel, they certainly did not have time to ponder it. Every tacksman and goldcloak would be at the Dragonpit dealing with the chaos. Though given the proximity of the Dragonpit to Flea Bottom, Jon supposed his luck was a mixed bag.

The Seven Stars was a nondescript tavern, and Pod led them to an even more nondescript side door with a breathless murmur. His task was to seek the other spies and see what the hell was going on in the city. The window to find Arya or Sansa was slamming closed, and Jon had snatch at the opportunity before it smashed his fingers. Brienne scanned the tavern, empty save for the bartender listlessly swilling grog by the fire.

A solid oak door carved with the signature seven stars opened to reveal a room with barrels of grog lining the walls, furnished with a rickety table. Seated at the table was a slender man maybe a few years older than Jon, with long brown hair hanging dirty and unkempt. He sipped grog from a horn cup. Jon’s eyes raked over him, searching for a hidden crossbow, sniffing for a hint of poison. All he found was a wooden cane leaning against the table. Jon steeled himself at the reminder of Bran.

“I mean you no harm,” the man said, spreading empty palms, “I wouldn’t drag my sorry carcass to this tavern everyday if I did.”

“How do I know you’re the man who sent the letter?” Jon said, rooted to the spot near the door. The man had once been handsome, but hunger had shrunken his flesh close to his bones. His cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut. Green eyes blazed cat-like from his skull.

“Suspicious. That means you’re as smart as you are pretty,” he said, pausing to sip his drink.

“I wrote to Robb Stark of a day by a northern lake. Young Sansa found polished rocks while the boys played in the water, along with little Arya.” Jon frowned at the man’s soft tone. Gods, he _hated_ trusting a stranger. But if this skinny asp had even a hint of where Sansa or Arya were, Jon would throttle him until he was satisfied with his answers. Jon sank into the chair opposite him.

“Tell me everything. Who you are, what you know, and how you know it,” Jon said in an even, steely tone.

“I’ve suffered enough for good faith that I need reassurances before I answer.” Anger simmered in his belly, hot and steady. His fists clenched and unclenched on the table, the knobs of his knuckles whitening.

“What do you want?”

“You’ll take me with you when you leave this godsforsaken city, provide me safe passage north, and two hundred gold dragons for my trouble.”

“Two hundred dragons? Are you mad?”

“A king’s ransom, or a princess’s in this case,” he drawled, eyes steady on Jon’s over the rim of his cup.

“Robb will pay your ransom. Our route out of the city takes strength. We won’t be able to coddle you,” Jon hedged with a significant glance at the cane. The man chuckled, though the hard set of his face spoke of pain, not mirth. 

“I’ve suffered worse, boy.” Jon rankled at the address, but let it slide.

“A deal is struck, on one condition: I verify your information as true and rescue Sansa or Arya. If you speak truly, the agreement stands. If you prove false . . .” Jon let the sentence hang. If he proved false, Robb would cut his head off, if there was anything left of him once Jon was finished. The man’s composed expression didn’t alter. Who was this man? He spoke as a man with some education, accustomed to authority.

“I agree to your terms.”

“Now _tell_ me what you know.” Silence stretched the air taut as the man considered Jon. The simmer in his belly was now a boil. Jon clenched his jaw.

“You love your sister. I had to know. Sansa deserves protection after all she’s suffered.”

“So you know where she is?”

“Yes. She’s in the Vale. The Eyrie specifically.”

“And Arya?”

The man frowned, shaking his head, and one stubborn ember of hope burning in his chest faded to ash.

“I am sorry, Snow. I don’t know where little Arya is. My contacts have been unable to locate her.”  Jon swallowed hard.

“But Sansa. You say she’s been in the Eyrie this whole time? Who--” Jon broke off, a realization dawning.

“Littlefinger. That rat kidnapped her from Joffery’s wedding in the confusion and sailed off to marry Lysa Arryn.”

“Got it in one.” the man toasted Jon with his cup. Jon shook his head, baffled and excited in equal measure. Finally, _something_ to go off of.

“But Lysa is Lady Stark’s own sister. Why would she keep Sansa her prisoner?”

“Lysa’s touched in the head, a murderer, and mealy-mouthed cunt. She’d sell Catelyn Stark’s head if Littlefinger told her to.” Questions multiplied as he spoke with such venom, but Jon stuck to the salient points doggedly.

“How do you know this?”

“I have a friend who ferries letters between Sansa and I. We’ve traded letters since Joffery’s murder.” A crippled, learned man accustomed to power who shared correspondence with Ned Stark’s daughter . . .

“You’re Willas Tyrell,” Jon said, just as Brienne shouldered her way in. The man’s lips curved in a sharp smile, his gaze not breaking Jon’s. He glanced back to find Brienne shut the door behind her, suspicious and hopeful in equal measure.

“Well done, Jon Snow. Guilty as charged. You have your answers.”

Jon grunted in reluctant amusement. The revelation raised more questions than it answered.

“Why all the subterfuge? Your grandmother has declared for Daenerys. If she would risk treason and death for the sake of revenge, she would do that and more in order to free you.”

“My grandmother thought I perished in the sack of Highgarden. In all honesty, _I_ thought I had too--” a crash from beyond the door. Jon and Brienne swiveled toward the door, Willas rising slower. Moments later, Podrick crashed in the room, streaming sweat and breathing like he’d ran a footrace.

“We have to go! We—the others, Elmar, Darren, Orwen, they--” he paused, gulping hungrily for air.

“—I found Darren. He said the goldcloaks were moving the wildfire—spreading it beneath the entire city. Cersei she—she—she’s gone mad! She—”

“Pod, slow down!” Brienne said. The squire took in a calming breath.

“Cersei plans to lure the queen’s forces in, then set the whole city on fire!” Those words delivered in a calm tone did not soften their impact. It struck Jon hard in the gut.

“But the wildfire burned. That means--” Jon said, the realization dawning in a pained flash of green-hued fire.

“They’re dead, Darren too. He died burned half to the seven hells in an alley. He said they set it off to save the city. Goldcloaks saw me, though. We have to move. Now!” Jon glanced at Willas with an arched brow.

“Let’s see how you move.”

 


	31. Part XXXI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape from King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the lovely comments! The Reunion coming up in the next chapter!

Part XXXI

 

 

“Come on, Selly!” Jon said, dragging Brienne down the alleyway. Close quarters had them staggering half-blind, the twisting wynd lit by jagged squares of lantern-light. Pod darted ahead of them. Jon fixed his eyes on the rusty brown tunic he wore, square and sturdy ahead of them in fast-falling dark. Jon leapt over a fallen barrel.

“Keep up, Flowers!” Jon shouted over his shoulder.

The rasp of breath and the quick tap of a cane told him Willas was still hot on his heels. Shoving aside an urchin in the street, Jon staggered. His shoulder slammed into the wall. Jon ignored the burst of pain and kept running, his lungs burning.

“This way!” Pod said, clamoring up the rungs of a ladder. They’d left Flea Bottom’s slums behind, taking advantage of a careless servant’s lapse. Jon collapsed flat on his back against the peaked roof, sucking down hungry gulps of air. Pod leaned over the edge, hauling up Brienne and then Willas. Pod pressed a finger to his lips. Jon measured his breaths, straining his ears for the clatter of mail-clad goldcloaks. _There!_ Down below, a muddle of hobnailed boots, the squawking of Flea Bottom accents. Beside him, Willas’ feet scrabbled for purchase against the roof’s slant. The rattle of roof tiles felt startlingly loud.

“Be _still_!” Brienne hissed.

“I’m slipping!” Willas said.

“Gods above, Rennick, what’re we even chasin’? Captain said there’s some mess over on the Street of Silk.” Jon grabbed a fistful of Willas’s threadbare tunic.

“It was a burly lad. He was at the Dragonpit he was, smeared in soot and the like. Queen’s offering a man’s weight in gold to bring in anyone who knows what happened.” Brienne lunged toward them, stopped by Pod’s insistent murmurs. A loose tile slipped free. Willas caught it with the hook of his cane. The muscles of Jon’s arm quivered, the seams of the tunic gave way in a low hiss. Cursing, Jon flung an arm across Willas’ torso. In slow degrees, the two of them sank toward the roof’s edge. _If I fall, I better not scream._

“You see a burly lad now, eh? And we runnin’ like dogs chasing our tails. Come on, Ren. Let’s get a tankard then hurry on over to the Street of Silk.”

Jon braced the heels of his boots against the edge, heaving up with all his might. Pain shrieked through screaming muscles. Just a little . . . _longer_ . . .

“Fine. Must’ve buggered off home. Lad probably just stole a loaf of bread or something.” The goldcloaks departed, and Jon struggled upright with a low groan of relief.

“Old gods protect us, that was close,” Jon said.

“What do we do about the others?” Brienne asked.

“Take us to the Order’s nearest mews, Pod. We need to send a raven to As—Yara and Luwin. Then we double back to Tansy’s.”

 

Jon heard a death-rattle before. No man who had walked as many battlefields as he had could forget that sound. The humid warmth of Tansy’s room was noxious with the smell of old blood, vinegar, shit, and wine. Sweat dewed on Jon’s brow, creeping in fat drops down the back of his neck.

“I did all I could for them,” Tansy said, washing her hands in a basin, her apron and kerchief smeared with blood, “That one was too far gone. All I could give him was dreamwine to ease his way.”

Jon’s hot eyes fell on Byran, cold and still on the floor. Tansy covered him with a white cloth, two stones on his eyes to greet the Stranger. _I am sorry, brother._ Ed sat dry-eyed beside his father, kneading his sword-scarred hand. Brave lad. Jon sank to his knees beside Ser Tallhart. Inane words flew to his lips, and he bit them down.

“Theo,” Jon whispered, squeezing his shoulder gently. Thin, blue-tinged eyelids fluttered open. In gentle candlelight, Ser Tallhart’s face looked flaccid, waxen. Each rise and fall of his chest was an effort, his abdomen grossly distended. Tansy had stitched his wounds, but there was little to do to stop the bleeding inside.

“Jon,” he wheezed, “Lady Sansa? Little Arya?”

“Arya hasn’t been found, but our man found a way to Sansa. We’ll get her home,” Jon said with a fervent nod. Some of the tension bled from Ser Tallhart’s face.

“Good, good. After I die . . .”

“Father, don’t--” Ed interrupted. Ser Tallhart pushed on.

“After I die, send my bones North. Send me home to my wife and daughters. Promise me, Snow.”

“Of course, Theo. I promise. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I led into such danger,” Jon said, blinking away the film of tears. Gods, Ser Tallhart was like his right hand, a damn fine commander and his _friend_ . . .

“This is war, Snow. A war to get your love the throne she wants so badly. I think she might be the only one to deserve it.” Jon smirked in reluctant amusement.

“I think so too. Thank you, Theo. For everything.”

“Father . . .” Ed said, face twisted in anguish.

“Give me a moment with my boy, Snow,” Ser Tallhart said.

Jon nodded thickly, rising with barely concealed rage. His entire command decimated in this rat’s nest of a city! He remembered Byran, the devout man from White Harbor who prayed before every battle, Darren, the man who fell asleep on the Mander who had three little girls, Orwen, who could whistle better than any man he’d ever heard, Elmar, who taught him the trick of stuffing wool in his boots to keep them dry. Gods, he couldn’t even recover their bodies!

“Each of them knew the risk when they came. Asha’s raven said she’d be in Blackwater Rush within a week. She’ll be able to bring them home,” Brienne said, grasping his forearm.

“Small comfort to their widows and children,” Jon said with a bitter twist to his mouth.

Jon paced the room in restless turns, wanting to shred his ears at Ser Tallhart’s every labored, rattling breath, every gasped word. At last, mercifully, the rattle ceased. Jon stood over Ed, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Ed.” The young man’s shoulders convulsed under Jon’s grip, wracked by silent sobs. Jon’s throat closed. Jon stood there, letting the guilt and pain wash over him, letting it seep inside his soul. At last, he found his voice. 

“Pod?” Jon asked. The squire swallowed the oatcake Tansy had pushed into their hands.  Hot off the griddle and seasoned with pecans and cinnamon, they were life to complaining bellies, a faint comfort in the face of death and grief.

“S—Ser?”

“What is our path out of the city?” Jon asked. Pod swiped crumbs from his stubbled chin.

“Goldcloaks are out thick tonight, ser. I don’t think--”

“The longer we stay, the more likely they’ll catch us with the tavern so close to the Dragonpit. Best go south, to the kingswood,” Jon said, cutting off Pod’s protest with a terse gesture. Goldcloaks and Lannisters were city watchmen and southrons first. A dense wood for experienced northern hunters and soldiers would be an ideal hiding place until they could meet Robb’s men. His raven was the signal for Robb to march south from Harrenhal and Asha to sail from Dragonstone.

“Aye,” Pod said, bobbing his head, “aye, you’re right. Best wait a bit, until the hour of the wolf. The watchmen are stretched thin, and those that are on duty are cold, tired and unwary.”

“A lucky hour,” Jon said, with a twitch of lip, “let’s get out of this thrice-cursed city.” Brienne, Willas, and Ed hunkered down by the brazier, seeking sleep. Jon hefted Pod’s sack of silver.

“I must thank you for housing us, and what you did for my men,” Jon said, offering the sack to Tansy. It was enough to make her a wealthy woman, and leave the slums of Flea Bottom behind. Her hands fluttered like a startled dove.

“Oh, ser. I couldn’t accept that. Pod’s a love, he and Lord Tyri--Duncan saved my boy during the Battle of Blackwater. Saved the city from them Baratheon boys, he did. I promised to help him in any way I could.” Jon laid a hand on her rounded shoulder.

“Please accept it, for all your help,” Jon said again. Tansy took the sack.

“Thank you, ser.”  Jon glanced at Byran and Ser Tallhart, committing their faces to memory. This was cost of leadership. He must remember it.

“I would ask you to tend their bodies.”

“I will, ser.”

With nothing left to distract himself with, Jon leaned against the wall, sinking into a crouch. Sleep eluded him, especially with Byran and Ser Tallhart’s bodies growing cold in front of him. In the light of the Seven, it was customary to hold vigil over the body until he could be buried. Byran would appreciate the gesture. Ser Tallhart held to the old gods of the First Men. His body would be taken North, home to be buried.

A hot wave of emotion rose up, anguish and guilt and remorse. Jon let the tears fall as the brazier crackled and murmured. A nagging pain bore into his temple. Red fell over his vision, dark as blood. **_Jon . . ._** _Gods, no. Not that voice again._ **_Jon! Hurry! Come to the Isle!_** Jon staggered to his feet, trying to blink away the red film over his vision.

“Stop! Shut up!” Jon shouted, pressure building in his head. It hurt! _Dany_ . . . **_The Isle, Jon Snow!_** Jon clutched his head, blinded by the pain.

“Jon?” Brienne asked.

**_Jon!_ **

“ _Shut up_!” he screamed.

“Jon!” Brienne said, shaking him.

As suddenly as it came, the pain and vision vanished. Jon swayed, hearing the harsh sawing of his own breathing.

“Are you well?” Brienne asked, hands spread in a calming gesture. Jon shook himself, seeing his own terror reflected in their faces. _Now is not the time to get barmy!_  

“Fine, fine. Nightmare, that’s all,” Jon said, swiping cold sweat from his face. Brienne’s scowl did not slacken, but she didn’t push the matter.

“Here, drink some water.” Jon accepted the waterskin she offered and swallowed thirstily. Outside, the bells chimed the hour. The hour of the wolf.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Pod led them south out of Flea Bottom, zigzagging through alleys and darting across thoroughfares. The cold air was a breath of relief, tasting of snow and woodsmoke. A few stray flakes fell, the North’s cold kiss on his upturned face. Jon was grateful for the cold, bulky cloaks would help conceal their armor and weapons. Overhead, the wind tore errant clouds to filmy strands, the moon a silver paring in the sky. A couple drunks lurched down the street, a couple prostitutes out plying their trade as they crossed the mouth of the Street of Silk. Other than that, their small group crept unnoticed parallel to the Muddy Way towards Fishmonger Square.

“A rowdy place even at this time of night. Quaymen are an intemperate lot, we’ll fit in just fine,” Pod said. Jon glanced over his shoulder, finding Willas lagging behind.

“Keep up, Flowers!” Jon said.

“Go fuck yourself, Snow,” he snapped back, face held in a grimace of pain. Jon bit back a smirk.

“How much farther, Pod?” Brienne asked. Pod shrugged.

“Mud Gate’s just a couple streets over. A quick nip through the sewer, then you’re out. There’s a ferry across the Blackwater. The kingswood is beyond that.”

“I think we should part ways here, Pod. We can find our way. If the goldcloaks see you, I don’t want them piecing together about any ‘burly lads.’” Jon said. Pod nodded with a half-sheepish shrug. Jon’s heart warmed. Pod’s quiet, unassuming stability was easy to admire. He clapped a hand on the squire’s shoulder.

“You’re a brave man, Pod. I’ll be sure to tell the queen of your loyal service,” Jon said. It might have been a trick of the starlight, but Pod’s cheeks looked flushed.

“Thank you, my lord. Give Lord Duncan my regards as well,” he said, almost bashful. Farewells were exchanged and Pod darted off, quick as a cat into the dark. Brienne nodded.

“A good thing, seeing the lad off safe. It might get ugly if the goldcloaks find us,” she said, gripping Oathkeeper beneath the drape of her cloak.   _I couldn’t bear to have another innocent’s blood on my hands_.

“Come,” Jon said, leading the way.

Jon trotted down the cobbled street, followed by Ed, then Willas, with Brienne bringing up the rear. The Mud Gate was closed, as all the gates were at nightfall. The only portal in and out of the city was through the guard tower. It was easy enough to find the loose sewer grate. Jon dropped down with a splash. One never grew accustomed to the smell. Already, Jon blinked watering eyes.

“I’ll be glad to not have to stomp through shit anymore,” Ed said, burying his face in the crook of his arm. His voice filled the tunnel, rebounding off the walls in mocking echoes.

“ _Quiet_!” Jon hissed, ushering Willas down.

“The lad’s right,” Willas whispered with a grimace, “Mother save us, how many times have you been down here?”

“More times than I’d like,” Brienne said, yanking the grate closed behind them.

“Stay close,” Jon said, guiding Ed’s hand to his back.

Bent nearly in half, hampered by gear and weapons, the going was much slower this time. Though there were no turns to concern themselves with, it was still disorienting with only faint starlight filtering through the occasional grate to guide them. Jon kept a gloved hand against the wall, nearly falling when abruptly it was gone. He cursed, staggering in the muck.

“Grenn, you all right?” Ed whispered.

“Fine,” Jon said, pressing along the wall. Crumbled stone, a dribble of mortar plopping into the sewage. A cave-in. _Fuck_.

“The tunnel’s shifted,” Jon said. He heard the increased tempo of Ed’s breathing, and sought reassuring words. A muddle of movement.

“This way,” Willas said, tugging Jon left.

“What makes you think that?” Ed asked.

“It doesn’t smell so foul this way,” Willas quipped. Jon shrugged, fumbling for Willas’ thin shoulder.

“Good enough reason for me,” Jon said. Willas led the way, and Jon had to agree, the overpowering stench seemed to slacken a little. After slogging for what felt like an hour, at last the glimmer of starlight ahead. Jon waited, straining his ears for the sound of footsteps. Quiet answered him.

“Come,” Jon said, with a gesture toward Brienne.

Together they set their shoulders against the grate, heaving it up. The rusted hinges screeched horribly. Ed and Willas scrabbled through. Jon shifted his grip, urging Brienne forward with a jerk of chin. _Out_! Thank the gods, he was happy to leave the cesspool of King’s Landing behind. Jon sucked in a breath of clean air, smelling of wet growing things, water and mud. His relief was reflected in the other’s faces. Jon smirked.

“Let’s get out of here,” Brienne said, nodding toward the ferry.

The quay held fishermen, merchants, sailors of all shapes and sizes: some in neat sloops, others in wide, flat-bottomed skiffs. Just the sight of them poling made his arms ache. Travelers and smallfolk mingled among the wooden docks, most waiting for dawn to open the gates. Jon relaxed slightly. A couple more dirty travelers would cause no comment.

Willas approached one of the ferrymen, who lay collapsed in a rum-soaked doze against his river pole. Jon felt a stirring of pity. The poor man was out in the cold and wind trying to make a couple coppers. ‘Ferry’ was perhaps a generous term. The vessel floating in the Blackwater looked like leftover scraps of wood from when they built the dock. It was a simple square of wood lashed together with cord, wide enough for two or three bodies to stand on.

To tacit agreement, they agreed Willas’ Reacher accent would cause less comment than Ed or Jon. Nor did they want to draw attention to Brienne, since most men would remember a woman of her size.

“How much to cross?” Willas said, shaking the man awake. Groaning, the grimy ferryman snuffled and spit. He pinned Willas with slitted eyes.

“Wait until morning like everyone else, ye cunt.”

“If you had a bed to sleep in you’d be in it,” Willas shot back, “I’ll give you a silver stag for your trouble.” The ferryman appraised them with bloodshot eyes. Spattered with shit and muck, dirty and threadbare, they hardly looked wealthy.

“Tryin’ to pawn off stolen silver on me, are you? I’ll get the goldcloaks after you!” he spat with a palsied gesture.

Tension sang through Jon as a cadre of City Watchmen approached. He schooled his expression to inscrutability.

“What’s this then, Jay?” one of the goldcloaks asked. A stocky grey-bearded man, he stood with a casual hand wrapped around his longsword.

“These swindlers are tryin’ to pass off stolen coin, Captain! You should turn them in to the Lord Commander, I say!”

“Is that so?” his tone was heavy with disbelief. The goldcloak captain appraised the four of them, brief and perfunctory. Jon flicked his gaze over the others. There was a young one who was eyeing Brienne intently. She stood stooped, eyes on the toes of their dirty boots.

“What’s your heading?” the captain asked.

“South to the roseroad. My father’s a merchant from Cider Hall,” Willas said.

“Why you leavin’ in the middle of the night?” the younger goldcloak asked with a sneer. Willas returned his glare with a cooler one, though no less potent for its subtlety. 

“Explosions of wildfire are bad for business. I thought it best to return home with all haste,” he said. The captain gave a kindly smile.

“Now lad, that’s a bad rumor. Good Queen Cersei’s been moving those wildfire pots. It’s the Mad King and the Halfman who had them stored beneath the Dragonpit. It was an accident they went off.”

“Still, it’s got folk clinging to their purses. No time for a cordwainer’s wares,” Willas said with a careless shrug.      

“See Jay, these honest folk just want to get on their way. Now, you’d like to make another copper or two, aye?” the captain said. Jon’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“Aye,” the ferryman said, staggering to his feet with the aid of his slimy river pole.

“There, problem solved. Seven blessings to you folk,” the goldcloak captain said with a nod.

“And you as well, good ser,” Willas said with a winning smile that would have put the Knight of Flowers to shame. The captain signaled for his men to depart, and Willas turned to bargain with the ferryman.

The dimmest ember of hope kindled with their goal within sight. The ferryman hustled them onto two ferries tied together, thrusting a river pole into Jon’s hands. He muttered under his breath, cursing the hour, their weight, the cold, and the river. Ed and Brienne joined the ferryman on one square, he and Willas on the other.

Faintly, Jon heard a smattering of words: “I tell you that’s Brienne the Beauty . . . she brought Jamie Lannister . . . Landing for--”

“Hurry,” Jon whispered to Brienne, casting off the mooring line. Brienne dug in with her pole.

“Steady on, ye cunt!” the ferryman said, “don’t jostle us about! You’ll capsize us!”

“Let’s hope not,” Willas said, bone-pale in the starlight, “I can’t swim.” _Fucking hell._ Jon took his pole and shoved away from the dock as the goldcloaks approached. The ferry floated away at an agonizingly slow pace.

“See! See that’s her right there! Sworn sword to Catelyn Stark!” The young goldcloak said, pointing.

“You’ve got the wrong person, lad. That’s Selly, a farm girl from the Reach,” Willas said.

“Yeah? And I’m Hand of the Queen!” the goldcloak retorted.

Their one saving grace was that goldcloaks couldn’t jump the distance between the dock and ferry—not in armor. A few more strokes and the current would catch them. So close to the sea, here the Blackwater was wide and deep. Jon blessed Willas for buying a bit more time. His gut told him it was about to get ugly.

“Either way, I think it best you bring the ferry back so we may question you,” the captain said, every trace of kindliness gone. He looked hard-eyed and seasoned.

“I think not, ser!” Willas said, bluff and affronted, “we’ve done nothing wrong!”

Dimly, he heard the ferryman squawking. Jon dug the pole in for another stroke, fumbling enough to look like he was trying to comply with the goldcloak’s wishes. Jon glanced behind him, finding Ed struggling with the pole. The ferry rocked dangerously beneath their feet.

“Give that pole here, you bleeding bastard! The captain’s said turn her aright! You fuckers listen he--” a loud splash interrupted the ferryman’s words. From the tail of his eye, he saw the ferryman surface, floundering the water. 

“You have one more chance to comply, or I poke you full of holes and drag your carcasses to the Queen’s justice.” Jon looked to find the cadre hefting crossbows. _Fuck_! The current picked up, dragging them farther away.

“Pole faster! They’ll have trouble hitting a moving target at this range!” Jon shouted.

“ _Ready_!” All four of them dug in with their poles, sweeping them into the Blackwater’s tide. Dig, push, sweep, dig, push, sweep.

“ _Aim_!” Dig, push, sweep. Dig, push, sweep. Dig, push, swe--

 “ _Fire_!”

“Duck!” Jon shouted, shoving Willas face down on the deck. A splash, a whistle, a dull _thunk_.

“Everyone all right?” Jon said.

“I’m good,” Willas said, followed by Ed and Brienne. Eyes fixed on the receding dock, he saw some of the goldcloaks peel off, running toward the guard tower. The others were reloading their crossbows.

“Come on, pole while they’re reloading! Drop at my signal! Selly, how far to shore?” Jon asked, fumbling for the pole. Dig, push, sweep. Dig, push, sweep.

“We’re almost there!” she said. A flare of light to the left. What--?

“ _Duck_!” Jon shouted, yanking Willas down by a fistful of his cloak. A pot of burning pitch missed them by a hand’s span, landing with a splash and hiss in the river.  

“Gods above, they’re trying to sink us!” Ed said.

“Lady, I’d hate to hear why they despise you so much!” Willas said, with a grim grin. Jon looked back. Gods, the crossbows!

“Crossb--” Jon said, twisting around. Pain burst in his shoulder and leg. He cried out. Pain carved cruel lines down his back as he pushed the pole doggedly.

“ _Jon_!”

“I’m hit. Everyone all right?” He bit the words out between short, sharp breaths. The edges of his vision pulsed black.

“I took one. Leg,” Ed gasped.

“Brienne? Willas?”

“I’m fine,” Brienne said.

“Only a graze for me,” Willas said.

Warm blood trickled from his shoulder and the bolt buried in his thigh. No time for pain. No _time_. Not with fire falling from the sky and arrows flying at the only target—a thought struck him.

“Abandon the raft. We have to swim. There’s no way they can hit us at that distance!” he said. Ed and Brienne nodded, diving off without another word.

“Snow, I told you, I can’t swim! Not with my leg!” Willas said, his voice thin with panic.

“It’s swim or die!” Jon said, tackling him as another flash winged toward on the ferry.

The Blackwater was colder than the Mander, its current a sharper tug. Jon kicked toward the surface. The rucksack on his back weighed him down, dragging him deeper under. Panic shredded at him. He struggled free of the straps. His lungs burned, pain shrieked through his body. He kicked and clawed for the surface, bursting up with a grateful breath.

Orange firelight danced on the surface of the water. The ferry was on fire. He spat water from his mouth, tasting faintly brackish. Willas floundered nearby.

“Just kick to keep your head above water!” Jon said, his voice warbling over the water. He swam in quick strokes, closing the distance between them. Farther ahead, he glimpsed Ed and Brienne, the dye dripping from her fair hair.

“Float on your back. It’s easier. Keep kicking,” Jon said, towing Willas by a fistful of his tunic toward the distant beckoning of shore.

“I’m all right, I’m all right. Damned leg,” Willas said through gritted teeth. Jon’s teeth chattered. Each stroke hurt. The pain joined burning muscles and aching lungs. The arrows and pitch pots ceased. No sense wasting an arrow.

Jon swam, smooth strokes made shaking and sloppy as the cold sank into his bones. His arms felt like wooden blocks. At long last, his boots sank into soft mud. Jon groaned, dragging Willas beside him. He dragged in deep breaths, wracked by shivering. Willas staggered upright, hopping awkwardly on his good leg.

“Come on, Snow. We have to find safety,” he said. _Where_? Where could they go with half the City Watch out after them? They couldn’t bide their time waiting for Robb’s men.

“I need a raven,” Jon gasped.

 

Brienne was their savior in that regard. The kingswood spanned hundreds of leagues, stretching from King’s Landing south to the Stormlands. And seated in the sapphire waters of Shipbreaker Bay was Tarth, Brienne’s birthplace. As such, the smallfolk they found after tramping down deer tracks half the night were accommodating to Selwyn Tarth’s daughter. A merchant lent a raven from his stock, costing Jon only half the silver he still had hidden in his clothes. Jon scrawled the message with their position—as best as he could guess—and let the raven fly. The rest of the silver went to rations and bedrolls for the four of them, flint and wine. 

Jon and the others kept moving, thanking the smallfolk for dry clothes and hot mugs of soup. Goldcloaks were clumsy and stupid when left to their own devices outside the city, and Jon comforted himself that by the time experienced trackers took to their trail, there would be little to find. If dogs could find a scent on their grimy, soaked clothes, they still kept to deer trails and ice cold streams, which would confuse them. 

“Was that a message to your brother?” Willas asked as they tramped through thick brush in the dark. The deeper into the kingswood the better. Despite clean clothes and a hot meal, Jon felt cold down to his marrow. As cold as standing naked on the Wall. Each step hurt the barbs in his shoulder and leg. He hadn’t dared to tear out the bolts until they found shelter.

“No. It was to Daenerys,” he said, pierced by joy and pain both. He’d see her soon, but he regretted the circumstances.

“The dragon queen? Are you mad?” Willas said, aghast.

“Lord Stark’s men won’t get here in time. By dragonback, Daenerys can be here much faster,” Brienne said. Jon squinted at the lightening sky.

“She will come. Trust me,” Jon said.   


	32. Part XXXII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's your chapter a bit early, my lovelies! I know the next couple days will be super busy for me irl, so I give you the reunion chapter. Hopefully I'll find some writing time to keep up the update schedule.

Part XXXII

 

 

“Maester Jaron, gather everything you need to tend the injured and sick,” Daenerys said as she strode down the stairs from the lord’s chambers. Her small council trailed after her. Missandei wound her braid to lay atop her head. She snapped her fingers, and Ser Jorah handed her helm. It was her spare helm; crafted of plain black steel, though with intricate etching to mimic dragon scales.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Maester Jaron said, his chain clanking with each step, “where are we marching?” Daenerys paused on the landing, facing the maester. She chafed at any delay. _Come quickly._

“You ride with me on Drogon to the kingswood,” Daenerys said, her words clipped and short. All the blood drained from the maester’s face, leaving him as ashen as his grey robes.

“Oh You—Your Grace, I cannot . . . of course I would never presume to--”

Impatient, Daenerys turned to order bedrolls, rations, and a tent packed for Drogon’s saddle. Turning back to face the maester, she found could not muster empathy, or even the stirrings of pity. Jon was in _danger_. Every breath they wasted was another he might be able to draw again.

“You are a maester of the Citadel, are you not? Chained in service to the Lady of Dragonstone?” she said, ice in her voice. The maester’s red hair lay damp with sweat at the temples.

“Well, yes Your Grace. But I--”

“And am I not the Lady of Dragonstone and all Seven Kingdoms besides?” All the fight seemed to drain from him, he visibly wilted.

“Yes, Your Grace.” There was a faint pang at his defeated tone. Daenerys grasped his wrist gently.

“I need your help, maester. The men will need your knowledge and skills. Their _lives_ may depend on it. Help me,” she said. Coaxing and stirring fighting men to follow her across the world paid dividends in situations such as this. Maester Jaron met her gaze, blue eyes ablaze with fervor.

“I will not fail you.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys said with a grateful squeeze of his arm.

“ _Jelmāzmo,”_ Storm-Son said, interrupting her trek down the stair. Missandei and Ser Jorah took advantage of the distraction, Missandei draping her crimson cape over her head, while Ser Jorah finished fastening her breastplate in place. She winced. Since waking, her breasts felt tender, along with a general feeling of malaise. _What a time to come down with an ague!_

“What is it, Storm-Son? I must leave with all haste,” she said, maintaining her temper by force of will.

“Ser Barristan wants words. He has report from prisoners,” he said.

The words rose to her tongue to dismiss the report. The men—potential traitors all—could languish in dark, dripping cells until her return. But she could also not leave her camp—her people and her cause—with a possible traitor in their midst either. Daenerys bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. The spike of pain anchored her temper.

“I will meet him in the council chamber, Storm-Son. Quickly.” Her Unsullied captain turned and galloped up the stairs three at a time.

“Make your preparations, Maester. Meet me in the bailey as soon as you are able. Dress warmly,” Daenerys said.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, with a bow.

The rest of the trek to the council chamber, Daenerys listed her orders. Lord Tyrion was to rule in her stead, though all matters must be discussed with her small council. The Unsullied would report to Grey Worm, the Dothraki would ride with her bloodriders. A portion of each faction would hold the Rock until her return. The commanders in question voiced their agreement.

All the Westerosi men who rode with her—along with battalions from the Unsullied and a portion of the Dothraki horde—would follow, and meet Robb Stark’s men in the Crownlands. If it came to battle over King’s Landing, they would have both the men necessary to storm the city and resources in reserve should they fail. Also it would send a message to the men and women of the Crownlands that it was the will of Seven Kingdoms that she depose Cersei. The rest: ration distribution, grazing lands, prisoner maintenance, reports, potential skirmishes, the manning of garrisons spread across the continent, all would funnel through her Hand until her return.

Her small council took their seats in silence. Missandei plied her with food. Though she had no appetite, Daenerys chewed a mealy bite of winter apple to appease her. Too restless to sit, she paced before the fire. He did not make her wait long. Ser Barristan burst into the room, out of breath. Something in his expression made her stomach clench, like he’d been winded by a blow.

“Report. I must go to King’s Landing,” she said without preamble.

“Your Grace. I bring grave news.” Daenerys faced him square, as if preparing to take a blow herself.

“Speak, Ser Barristan.”

“The traitor in our midst is Melisandre of Asshai.”

What struck her first was not pain, but confusion. By her own order, she sent Melisandre to question the prisoners alongside Ser Barristan. She trusted the Queensguard knight to curb the red woman’s more bloodthirsty tendencies, and her strangeness to loosen tongues.

“Explain.”

“Taereg broke whilst she was questioning another prisoner. He confessed to giving Euron the knife, but only at her orders. She said she would burn him alive if he didn’t. Several others corroborated similar stories. Though I suspect it didn’t take much in the case of some ironborn captains.”

Daenerys kneaded her temples. Melisandre had appeared soon after Drogo’s pyre burned, saying her visions had drawn her to a daughter of fire. They had traveled together for years. Never confidantes or companions, but allies. Trusted allies. Lies! Betrayal! She sank into a chair by the fire. Melisandre had sat in this very chair, speaking of her visions in the fire. Had she planted those words in Euron’s mouth, a den of vipers? Were her visions lies as well? Daenerys heart trembled. _A grave with blue roses . . ._

“And the report of the Greyjoy’s ships?” Tyrion asked with a scowl.

“That was Crow Eye’s doing. He sent only a splinter force near Pyke to entice you to action.”

“To what cause? My children destroyed his fleet.” _My children . . ._

“Melisandre wants my dragons. That is why she threw her lot in with Euron and his hellhorn,” Daenerys said softly. _Fire made flesh._ What better to serve the Lord of Light? _Lies, betrayal._

“There’s more,” Ser Barristan said. The tone was like a death knell.

“What is it, Ser?” she asked, gripping the arms of the chair hard enough to whiten her knuckles.

“The tall boy she brought from the Stormlands, Edric Storm. She’s been torturing him. A maid heard noises from Melisandre’s chambers. She fetched a knight to break the door. The boy was on the bed, gagged and bleeding from a thousand cuts. He’s alive, but he said she been taking his blood to give to the fire.” Another piece fell into place. How diminished she looked when she arrived from the Stormlands, her miraculous recovery, that thrice-cursed ruby beating like an evil heart at her throat.

“That was what she meant by king’s blood. By why would she not seek _your_ blood, Your Grace? A true queen and daughter of fire?” Tyrion asked.

“I made her swear before her god to never offer blood as a sacrifice. If she asked, I would know she broke her oath. Where is she now, Ser Barristan?” Daenerys said.

“Locked in an iron cage.”

“Throw away the key,” Ser Jorah said, “let her rot.”

Daenerys rose, exhaling a deep breath. There was time to deal with her later. Jon was more important.

“Make sure her ruby is stripped from her. Guard her day and night. I will deal with her when I return.” Daenerys stood, her heart heavy.

“At once, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said, marching in step with her. She turned to Ghost, her furred white shadow in these past weeks. She petted the heavy weight of his head, peering into his garnet-red eyes.

“You cannot follow now, my friend. I go to bring Jon home. You must _stay_.” The direwolf sat, his thick tail thumping on the floorboards.

Drogon’s roar rattled the great hall’s roof beams. Unsullied yanked open the keep’s wide doors. Above, the sky boiled with dense grey clouds to the north. She and Drogon would not outrun a snowstorm, and a fierce one by the looks of it. Winter had indeed come. _Come quickly._ The bailey milled with people. Their upturned faces spoke of confusion and fear. They feared an attack.

“Spin your tales, Lord Tyrion. I go for Jon,” Daenerys said.

“I will. Fly fast, Your Grace. Give my regards to Ser Stark,” Tyrion said, with a faint smile. Weighed by worry and ill news, Daenerys hadn’t the heart to return the gesture. Instead she nodded.

Maester Jaron trotted up the stair, breathless and carrying a large chest. He’d traded his robes for leathers along with heavy cloaks and gloves. Daenerys motioned for him to follow. Her people cleared a path for her as she made her way to Drogon. Their bond lay as delicate as spider’s silk between them, though she could sense the tenor of his mind. She pushed an inkling of peace, long enough for Maester Jaron to clamber up to the saddle.

Daenerys pressed her forehead against Drogon’s snout, pressing an image a faraway wood, another of Jon’s face. Drogon growled low, baptizing her in hot smoke. A faint spark through their bond made her turn. Rhaegal hovered overhead, uttering his undulating roar. Viserion, not one to be left out, roared in echo. Daenerys frowned, trying to placate him, urge him to stay. Rhaegal pushed the image of Jon, emphatic. Daenerys tried again. _No. Stay!_ Hot drops of blood dripped from her nose. Rhaegal fought, nearly shredding the mental leash between them. Daenerys winced, pain throbbing at her temples.

“Fine. Suit yourself,” she said, scowling up at her disobedient son. Drogon butted her chest gently. Daenerys scratched the loose scale on the underside of his jaw before climbing up his shoulder. The maester sat in the saddle, his face bloodless. Daenerys urged him to sit behind her, securing his ankles by the leg straps.

“I—I cannot promise I won’t vomit,” Maester Jaron said, cradling his chest of medicine like a newborn. Daenerys nodded.

“Do your best not to scream,” she said, biting back a smile.

 

~

 

The hut crouched like a lichen-bearded gargoyle amongst the trees. The roof was half caved in, the wood creaking with rot. It was perfect. Jon set down the rucksack, sinking to his knees on the hard packed earth.

“Are you all right, Jon?” Brienne asked. Jon swallowed a wave of nausea that broke over him. Jon shook his head.

“I’m fine. I’ll be better once we get a fire started,” he said, adjusting Longclaw at his hip. He sank back against the wall to rest. Just for a moment, just until the edges of his vision stopped wavering.

Brienne nodded, setting about making camp in silence. While as weary and cold as the rest of them, Brienne had escaped injury. Jon gnawed on jerky as Brienne gathered kindling and tinder to make a fire. A couple scrapes of the flint against Oathkeeper’s edge and the flame caught. The hint of warmth was welcome to his weary bones. Jon’s eyelids felt weighed with lead, every muscle and sinew ached. He reached for the wineskin, pulling several gulps. Though cheap and sour, the wine would numb him for when they tended his wounds.

“Drink up, Ed. You’re first,” Jon said, tossing the skin in his direction.

Ed was a couple years younger than Jon, but had followed his father on the warpath when Robb called his banners. The iron blood of the North in his veins, he endured Brienne’s clumsy tending as she yanked the bolt out of his thigh and washed the wound with boiling wine with barely a whimper. Brienne packed soft lint into the neat hole, mopping up the smear of blood. The graze to Willas’s shoulder was summarily tended.

“Your turn,” Brienne said.

Jon nodded, shucking off the rough brown homespun tunic and rolling up the hem of his trousers. Jon braced his hands on the ground, fingers sinking into handfuls of cold clay. He dragged in a steadying breath through his nose and released it slowly. The pain in his shoulder was a dull ache, spiking to a sharper wrenching as Brienne yanked the bolt free. The half-stifled grunt emerged in a choked hiss as she poured hot wine into the wound. Not as bad as firemilk, but it still bloody _hurt_. Sweat slicked his skin by the time she was finished with both bolts. Brienne murmured apologies. Jon bit the inside of his lip to stifle a groan as he dragged the tunic over his head.

Lost in a dull grey thrall of exhaustion and pain, Jon curled on his bedroll by the fire. He sank into an uneasy sleep, tormented by dreams of a knife in the dark, a pulsing red heart, that godsforsaken _voice_ , beckoning him to the Isle of Faces. _No_. No, he wasn’t mad. He wasn’t hearing voices, like the Mad King. _Dany? Dany, where are you? You said you would come . . ._

The rattle of his teeth chattering woke him. Though swathed in his bedroll and curled by a crackling fire, he felt as if his bones were ice. The effort of lifting his eyelids was exhausting. Brienne’s square face wavered blearily before his eyes. He shivered at the press of her icy hand.

“You’re burning up.” Her voice seemed to reach him through thick felt. Jon’s tongue lay dry and sticky in his mouth. It took him two tries to get the words out.

“W—water,” he said.

With effort, Jon rose to sit cross-legged on the bedroll. Ed handed him the waterskin. The lad looked well, which comforted him. Jon couldn’t bear to lose another man, not so soon after the others. Cold water slid down his throat. Through the broken roof, the sky above was clear and blue, though the wood glittered with a fur of frost. Jon’s exhaled breath misted in the air.

“I’ll be all right. I just need rest,” Jon said, quieting the chills by force of will. Only a fine tremor of the hand holding the waterskin gave him away.

“Lady Br--” Willas said.

“I’m no lady. Just ‘Brienne’ will do,” Brienne said.

“Brienne. The dragon queen will not take kindly to Snow taking ill, I take it? Perhaps you and I can forage for herbs. Coriander leaves might help with the fever. Mustard seed for the wounds.”

Jon’s wheezing cough could have been a laugh, if one squinted at it.

“Are you also secretly a maester, Tyrell?” he asked. The weak jest had the intended effect, Ed and Brienne both smiled. Willas’s was a token curving of lip.

“No, Snow. But I’m no stranger to the sickbed. Listening to Maester Guymen rattle on had some benefits.”

“A pity your letter-carrying friend isn’t here. We could use an extra set of hands,” Jon said. Willas shrugged.

“I sent Gendry with a letter a fortnight ago. I told him to wait for me at the Old Crossroads Inn. We can make our way there in time.”

“Willas and I will forage a while. Fetch some wood, water, and whatever herbs we can find. Ed, stay with Jon.”

Despite his protestations, Jon felt too weak to argue their point. The four of them were as safe as he could make it, and wasting what little energy he had tramping through the kingswood was madness. The thought jabbed him like the prick of a needle. He sank back on his bedroll. Willas had found a stout stick to function as his cane, and limped with surprising deftness after Brienne.

He and Ed spoke in low tones of simple things, dancing around the hard, bloody road that led them here. Peering at the sky, Ed told him of a dark bank of clouds to the north. A storm. The shadows lengthened toward afternoon as Jon alternately fretted for Dany and dozed. Jon staggered to his feet only to relieve himself, barely keeping his feet as the world swam around him. Winded and sweating, he collapsed on his bedroll.

Time stretched and warped. **_Jon . . . Jon . . ._** his name seemed to twist and echo, as if heard from inside a cave. A _cave_?

“No,” he moaned, “leave me be. Leave me.”

Hands fell on him. Jon thrashed, striking out. White hot jolts bit deep in his shoulder and leg. The pain enraged him. He fought harder against those restraining hands.

“Leave me!” the words were torn from a raw, bloody throat.

The voice was softer this time. A gentle croon, coaxing him to drink. It was painfully, sweetly familiar, that voice. Jon mistrusted it still. Was it a lie? Poison? He was so thirsty . . . The drink was warm and bitter, but he swallowed obediently. Jon slipped under again, a deep, blessed quiet. He hovered somewhere between waking and sleeping, by turns confused and lucid. He shivered and ached, sweated and cursed. Beneath it all was a soul-deep throbbing, longing for Dany.

Jon cracked open gummy eyelids, blinking through an eye-stinging film of woodsmoke. His skin felt thin and clammy like a frog’s. The cold made his wounds ache. He must have made a sound, for he heard a rustle of movement. Limned in golden firelight, was Daenerys. Even with chapped skin, bloodshot eyes, and dried lips, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Dany . . .” he croaked. Her warm fingers pushed the hair from his brow. The slight graze, gentle and so breathtakingly real, made tears well in his eyes. She gave him a wobbling smile.

“You’re awake. How do you feel?” Jon’s mouth twisted in a wry half-smile.

“Could be better,” he said, his throat dry.

Words lay bottled in his throat. _I’m sorry. I love you. Marry me._ The last sliced through his malaise like a healer’s knife. Death and war, sickness and tragedy. There was so much that could separate them. Why would they waste what precious time they had?

“Here,” she said, cupping his head to help him drink. Jon didn’t break her gaze. The water was tooth-achingly cold, but quenched his parched throat. He drained the waterskin in thirsty gulps. His head pounded, his body felt weak as water, but at least he wasn’t raving. No, he was awake, sharply lucid. 

“Marry me,” he said, threading his fingers through hers. Her violet eyes, the whites pink-tinged, flew wide at his words, sweet lips parted. Such beautiful eyes, a deep rich violet in the firelight.

“Is he awake?” Maester Jaron’s voice broke in.

Jon kept his grip on her hand as the maester fussed over him. He peered at his eyes, tested his temperature, checked the poultices on his wounds. Jon noticed he now wore a fresh tunic and trousers. Gods, his men had seen him in his altogether, bathed him even. He endured the maester’s prodding, keeping his eyes fixed on Daenerys, drinking in the angle of her chin, the wisps of silver hair falling from windblown braids. She looked thinner, purple marks of tiredness cupping her eyes.

Beyond them, he found Daenerys had a tent raised within the hovel, trapping warmth around Jon’s cot. His stomach gave a long, liquid gurgle.

“Is there a bite to eat?” Jon said.

A rustle of movement beyond the black canvas walls. Ed, Brienne, and Willas crowded into the tent.

“Gods, Ser! You gave us a fright raving like you did. You nearly gave Brienne a black eye!” Ed said, crouching next to him.

“Sorry about that,” Jon said, meeting Brienne’s eye. She shrugged.

“Good thing even your punches are polite,” she said with a grin, gesturing to the swollen place along her cheekbone.

“How long was I out?” Jon asked.

“Almost four days,” Willas said.

“Any sign of the goldcloaks?”

“No. In that, we’re lucky. No southron is mad enough to tramp through the woods in this weather.” Not to mention, Jon thought, any evidence of their trail would be swept away beneath the snow.

“How did you find us?” Jon asked. It was an uncomfortable thought, imagining Dany flying through this weather. Flying and searching, eaten alive by worry and cold and desperation.

“Brienne devised a clever solution,” Daenerys said. Her thumb stroked the inner curve of his index finger, the touch light and rousing.

“She lashed branches into an arrow in the clearing pointing toward the hovel. It was easy enough to dust the snow off every now and then,” Willas said.

“Clever,” Jon said, accepting the bowl of stew Maester Jaron pushed in his hands. The wooden bowl radiated warmth, and though there was a faint tremor in his hands, he was able to spoon a mouthful without incident. The stew was a runny mess of salted beef and crunchy potatoes in a thin brown gravy, but it was hot and plentiful. Jon polished off two bowls and a hardtack biscuit. Maester Jaron watched Jon carefully as he ate, and, satisfied, ushered Willas out of the tent to tend his leg by the fire. The cold made his twisted ankle ache.

With Jon awake, Brienne urged Ed up to do what few chores there were. Firewood and water would always be needed until the storm blew over. A gust of frigid wind curled in their wake. The cloth flap fell closed behind them, leaving Jon alone with Daenerys. The tent was a murky half-dark, lit by the orange pulse of a banked fire. With some shuffling, Jon sat up against the support post, wincing at the stretch in his injured shoulder. She squeezed his captive hand, seemingly content with the silence. Jon stroked her thumb, muted by a strange shyness. He could profess his wish to spend his life at her side, she could fly across a continent for his sake, but the two of them must pick their way back to easy intimacy.  

“Where is Drogon?” he asked at last. His rash proposal could wait.

“The three of them are hunting. Woe to any crofter who leaves his cattle untended.” She fussily unwound her braids to finger-comb the heavy fall of her silver hair.

“All three flew with you?” Jon said. A fugitive gleam of amusement backlit her eyes.

“Rhaegal wanted to fly to you. Viserion did not want to be left behind.” Jon smiled, closing his eyes to search for the ripple of Rhaegal or Ghost. They were beyond his reach, but the thought of their presence comforted him.

“I hadn’t the strength to fight them,” she said. Jon lifted her hand and kissed the back. Father’s sapphire ring gleamed on her thumb, and the sight of it on her hand made warmth glow in his chest.

“I have a difficult time imagining that.”

A shadow fell over her expression, pensive and sad.

In the quiet with the wind howling outside, Daenerys told him of the Battle over the Sunset Sea, Euron Greyjoy and the hellhorn, the weakened bond between her and her sons, Melisandre’s betrayals. Gods, just the thought of it made him sick. She could have _died_ —alone and in pain, and he hundreds of leagues away. During the retelling Jon drew Daenerys down to lay beside him, pressing her tight against his chest. Comfort seeped through the contact. He could protect her now.

“I will drag Melisandre to the queen’s justice myself as soon as we return to the Rock,” Jon said, steel in his voice. _Red witch_.

“What of you? Brienne told me Willas writes letters to Sansa?” Daenerys said, arms warm and solid around him. So Jon told her of the journey to King’s Landing, Podrick, the scorpions, the deaths of his men.

“Ser Tallhart was a good man. I will miss him,” she said.

“Aye,” Jon said, his voice thick. Silence fell between them, but it was a contented one, replete with shared hardship.

“What shall we do when the storm breaks?” Daenerys asked, a sharp gleam in her eye. Jon suspected she didn’t simply mean breaking their fast. An opportunity lay before them. Robb and his men rode south from Harrenhal, Asha’s fleet would breach Blackwater Bay within the next few days, Daenerys’ men marched at her heels from the West. Cersei’s men within King’s Landing reeled from the Dragonpit explosion, the pretender’s Essosi would be all but neutralized in this weather. The city could be ripe for the taking.

“We have somewhere to go first,” Jon said, and his grim tone dimmed that light in her eyes. In bare, sparse words, Jon told her of the vivid nightmares, the voice beckoning him north to the Isle of Faces. Daenerys rose up with an irritated sound, straddling his hips to peer into his face.

“We cannot waste precious time chasing dreams--”

“It wasn’t just a dream. It happened when I was awake too,” Jon said. Daenerys exhaled a sigh, her brow furrowed. Warm, soft hands framed his face between them.

“Who do you think it is?” Jon snorted in reply.

“Hell if I know. I would say maybe Bran, but wargs among the Free Folk were never able to reach across continents. And if it is, why not just send me a raven? Why not ride south to meet us?” Jon said, turning his head to kiss her palm. The feel and taste of her skin lit a fire low in his belly, a deep well of hunger lurked there.

“I just know I must go, or it will drive me mad,” he said. Daenerys made a low sound of distress, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Then we will go. And we shall see if this magician can stand face to face to a dragon,” she said in a low, fierce voice. Jon felt surges of both arousal and admiration. Gods, his love was a wonder.

“Thank you, my love,” he said, honored by her unthinking trust, her fierce wish to protect him. Jon tilted his chin up to seek a kiss.

Daenerys melted toward him, her mouth soft and open. Pleasure trickled through his weary body, as heady as wine. Jon sank his hands into her tangled hair, cupping the weight of her skull as their tongues tangled. He’d been dying by inches, and Dany was a fresh breath of life, sunshine and summer. Pleasure’s burn was quick and hot. Daenerys peeled back with a grin, eyes dilated and panting.

“Jon, really?” she asked, grinding her hips against his growing arousal. Jon shrugged.

“I’m half dead with exhaustion and he’s the only part of me not to know it,” Jon said, moving close to press an open kiss to the underside of her chin. Daenerys hummed, hips rocking in sinuous movements.

“He missed you,” Jon whispered, fumbling for the ties of her trousers. Daenerys’ answering smile was wicked.

“Well, he deserves a proper greeting then,” she said.       


	33. Part XXXIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flight above the Crownlands

Part XXXIII

 

 

“Wake up, love. There’s something you need to see,” Jon’s sleep-rough voice pierced a dense fog of confusing dreams. Daenerys made a low groan of protest, nestling closer to him. Their bedroll trapped body warmth, and for the first time since mounting Drogon at Casterly Rock, Daenerys felt warm all the way through. Languor from lovemaking helped too, the feel of him hard and hungry within her made her toes curl. Winter had just begun and already she longed for spring. Jon chuckled, peeling back the bedroll.

At the sudden chill, Daenerys struggled up, swiping hair from her eyes.

“What is so urgent, Ser?” she said, with narrowed eyes. Jon’s sable eyes crinkled at the corners as he sat up and eased into his jerkin.

“The storm stopped,” he said. Daenerys strained her ears. Beyond the murmuring of the fire and low-voiced conversation beyond the tent, the constant roar of wind now lay silent. Daenerys arched a brow.

“And that merits waking me?” Jon shrugged. A wince crossed his face at the stretch of his shoulder. Daenerys’ gaze wandered over him in mingled concern and admiration. The months apart had stripped what little softness lingered on his body. She could count his ribs; his cheeks were leaner. Iron-hard muscle flexed beneath moon-pale skin. New bulk bunched at his shoulders and arms. His bright, steady gaze and easy smile reassured her. 

“Perhaps I missed you,” he said quietly. Her heart melted.

Daenerys crawled over to where he leaned against the tent support, nestling into his side. She was relieved by the smooth, even rise and fall of his chest, the steady grip of his hands. On the mend, thank the gods. Jon drew her close with a harsh sigh. Daenerys breathed a kiss on his cheek. Comforting him was a balm to them both, holding pain and exhaustion at bay. His sweet words were at least partly true. Unhampered by the storm, the two of them could safely fly for the Isle of Faces. They would be sure to leave their compatriots with Stark’s men.

“Now that the storm has broken, I can summon my children,” she said.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he said, his breath warm in her hair.

“I trust you with all that is precious to me,” she said.

Daenerys tilted her chin to meet his eye. She paused, chewing on her lower lip.

“Did—Did you mean it?” she asked. Jon’s muscular throat flexed as he swallowed hard. Dark grey eyes wide, he gave her a mute nod.

“You were raving with fever before that. I didn’t know . . . I wasn’t sure . . .” she trailed off, her cheeks aflame.

“It was a poor excuse for a proposal, to be sure,” he said with a trembling smile. Giddy energy swept away the lingering grip of sleep. Her heart thudded in her chest, nearly quivering with joy and fear both.

“Try again,” she said softly.

A mirrored joy lit in Jon’s eyes. He nudged her side, gesturing for her to rise. Daenerys climbed upright, and Jon clasped her hand between his. He cleared his throat, intent and serious.

“Growing up a bastard at Winterfell, I never thought much about having a wife or sweetheart. ‘Why bring more bastards named Snow into this shit world?’ I thought. Then a woman crossed the sea like a singer’s story come to life, a queen with dragons and Dothraki screamers and Unsullied warriors. And I wanted her more than my next breath, almost from the very start,” his voice trembled a little, and Daenerys bit her lip to ward off the rush of emotion.

 “Over time I saw how she cared for her people, how she wanted to remake the world into a better place, how she took the time to make a bastard captive feel more at ease. I was lost to Daenerys Targaryen before I even knew it.” For herself, his words broke a chink in her armor and flooded her like sweet summer rain, and tears slid down her cheeks.

“I am still a bastard, but now I am also a knight, a commander, a dragonrider, brother to Warden of the North, son of Eddard Stark. I swear before any god who will listen that I will shield your back, offer you counsel, I will be your lover and help-meet for as long as I draw breath. I ask humbly for your hand,” Jon asked, pressing a kiss on the back of her hand. His sable eyes held hers, swimming with emotion.

“Yes,” Daenerys said. Jon surged up, snatching her into a fierce, tearful embrace. He showered her face with kisses, then took her mouth with his. Urgent and hot, tasting the salt of joyous tears, Daenerys clung to him. Jon broke off panting, his eyes wide and searching.

“Are—are you sure? What about--”

Daenerys interrupted him with another searing kiss, adding a sharp tug on his hair. Jon’s stifled sound was one of pure need. Passion boiled up hot and quick. She longed to drag him down to the bedroll and ride him hard until he knew in his bones who he belonged to. Instead, she broke the kiss, pressing her forehead to his.

“What man could compare to you? You are knight and dragonrider, my second, born of noble blood. And I love you with my whole soul. You are _mine_ , Jon. Now and always.” Jon exhaled a shaking breath.

“I love you,” he breathed, sealing the words with another kiss.

A crash behind them made Daenerys break the kiss. Ed offered a sheepish smile from the ground, having tripped over the lip of canvas across the door opening.

“Good tidings, my queen. My apologies, I overheard and I--”

“Get up, idiot. Mucking about like a misshapen colt! Forgive me, my lord, my queen,” Brienne said, hauling Ed up by the scruff of his neck. Daenerys’ heart soared in the clouds with her children, so she forgave the gaffe with grace.

“May I be the first of offer good wishes on your engagement, Your Grace. May your union be fruitful and your reign long and peaceful,” Willas said with a courtly bow. Daenerys stifled the pang at the ‘fruitful’ bit. Gods, did Jon really understand what he’d be giving up by marrying a barren woman? She stuffed the thought into the recesses of her mind to feed upon in a quiet moment. Daenerys threaded her fingers through Jon’s. For now, there was only joy.

 

~

 

Jon fancied his feet scarcely touched the ground. Daenerys had said _yes_. She would be his wife. The thought filled him with a breathless joy, chased by a bastard’s instinctive wariness. When would the axe fall? Would she wake up one day and regret it? His name that was scarcely dry on the parchment. Jon shook off such grim thoughts.   

It was torture to allow her to leave the hovel, but she was the only one who could summon her children. Brienne and Ed accompanied her, to guide her to a clearing large enough for Drogon to land. Maester Jaron mulled over his medicine chest, wrapping precious vials in felt and tucking them amongst the others. Jon and Willas set about gathering their meager belongings.     

Willas cursed, sinking to a seated positon by the fire. He stretched his bad leg out before him, kneading the thigh muscle.

“It aches down to the marrow in weather like this. Like an old crone with the ague,” Willas said with a sour smile.

“I’m sure Sansa won’t mind,” Jon said, settling Longclaw on his hip. Jon made a testing twist. His wounds ached, but only slightly. Food, rest, and medicine left his mind clear and his legs steady beneath him. Willas’s hands stilled, green eyes shadowed.

“Before she slaughtered most of my kin, Cersei entertained a match between us,” he said. Jon wrestled the tent into a neat bundle of canvas wrapped around the support poles and stakes. 

“Is that when you started writing to each other?” Jon asked, tying off the bundle with a flourish.

“Aye.” Silence fell between them for a few moments.

“Does she know?” Jon asked with a sidelong glance. Willas’ green eyes, set on a catlike slant, blinked in startled innocence.

“Know what?”

“That you’re in love with her?” Jon said. The air hung thick and tense between them. Willas did not meet Jon’s eye, suddenly absorbed in the laces of his boots.

“I suppose it’s obvious. Given the lengths I went to in order to see her safe.”

“I won’t claim to know Sansa very well. She disliked having a bastard brother, but, I’d like to think she has enough depth to recognize a man of worth.” Willas met his gaze, so full of tender hope, Jon felt a soul-deep pang of sympathy.

“Thank you, Snow.”  Jon nodded. _Gods help any man who falls in love._ The thought made him smile.

 

Daenerys returned, and hand in hand they made their way to the clearing. Fresh snow crunched under his boots, the air a sharp, scoring cold. Sullen grey clouds lingered overhead, but hung frayed at the edges. Shafts of sunlight peeked through. Beyond a copse of trees crouched Drogon. The stark black bulk of him against the snowfall was striking. His heat made the snow hiss into tendrils of steam on the ground and trees around him.

Daenerys murmured something low and quick in Valyrian. The dragon’s horn-crowned head turned, fixing Jon beneath a hot, amber-red stare. Drogon lowered his head even with Jon, his deep hum made Jon’s bones rattle. Jon lifted a hand to touch Drogon’s snout. His scales seared Jon’s skin, even through the barrier of his gloves.

“You up first. Let it be someone he trusts before we add passengers,” Daenerys said.

Jon broke Drogon’s gaze, kissing Daenerys’ gloved palm before climbing up Drogon’s spikes to a spot behind the saddle. The maester skittered up, followed by Ed, Brienne, Willas, and lastly Daenerys. All four of the passengers were paler than the snow below them, Maester Jaron’s with a greenish tinge. Jon prayed the poor man wouldn’t vomit on Drogon. The dragon would take exception at this without a doubt. Daenerys settled in the saddle, grinning over her shoulder.

“Hold on tight to the nearest spike. Don’t squeeze too hard with your legs, it irritates him. _Soves_!”

The close press of trees made for an awkward take off. Drogon uttered a deep-throated roar, so loud it made Jon’s ears ring. Dragons had no care for goldcloak hunters, he thought. Drogon coiled his muscles beneath him, then in one powerful upward leap, launched them into the air. The heavy flaps of his wings gained height. The wind roared in his ears, pushing him back against Drogon’s uncomfortably warm scales.  

Jon muttered a curse under his breath as Drogon’s legs crashed into the upper treeline. Limbs snapped and crashed, snow flew in a powdery arch. Daenerys urged him upward with a shift in the saddle. Gods, that look of concentration and exhilaration of her face made his heart lurch in his chest. Jon leaned forward, nestling close to her, content to share the joy of flight. They won free with some effort with only open sky above them. Jon grinned, watching the hovel and kingswood shrink and disappear amongst the blank, snowy landscape. He relaxed into the striving muscles of the dragon as they climbed in the sky.

King’s Landing loomed to the north, snow-wreathed with chimney smoke rising in gauzy black fingers. Jon couldn’t see a single person outside the gates. The city was locked up tight. He strained his gaze east toward the Blackwater, but could find no sign of Asha’s ships in the distance.

As they flew higher, Rhaegal and Viserion joined them. Jon’s smile widened as Rhaegal approached glittering green in errant shafts of sunlight.

“He looks bigger!” Jon shouted over the wind. Rhaegal roared, the sound sharp and rich like a bugle. The two dragons swooped and twisted around Drogon, Jon grinned as their wind rocked them to and fro. A squeak from behind him made him look. Ed’s were large as saucers, fixed on Viserion’s glittering white form almost within arm’s reach above him.   

“I think he has grown!” Daenerys said with a grin.

Jon frowned in concentration, reaching out for Rhaegal. A presence waited, warm and thrumming. He pushed the thought of welcome, of friendship. He focused, feeling . . . something. An emotion that was not his own, but too far away to sense the tenor. Frustrated, Jon blew out a breath through his nose. Rhaegal flew even with Drogon, bronze-gold eye fixed on Jon. Daenerys half-turned.

“I think he’s trying to tell you that you have been gone too long,” Daenerys said, her voice torn thin by the wind.

“I’m trying to connect with him,” Jon said. Daenerys’ eyes, deep, rich blue in the light, eyed him with mingled admiration and speculation. She snatched a quick kiss.

“Don’t get frustrated, my love. It took me years to learn the trick of communicating with them, and I nursed them at my breast,” she said. Jon could think of no reply as he watched Rhaegal veer north, sleek and powerful.

They flew north, and it wasn’t long before Robb’s northern army spread below in a carpet of milling men, horses, and tents. Jon leaned over, seeking any sign of an opposing host and found none. Viserion roared, then Rhaegal was a deeper echo. Drogon finished with his own, strident and loud.

“Hold on!” Daenerys said, angling Drogon into a low dive toward the body of the pitched army. Jon felt his belly flip at the movement and laughed. There was nothing to match dragonflight.

He glimpsed Robb’s tent with its Stark banner snapping in the wind. Jon urged a thought of parting to Rhaegal. The thrumming presence seemed to accept this, though Rhaegal blew a puff of hot smoke in Jon’s direction. With a careless shift, the green dragon and his brother turned south to seek a meal.

At Daenerys’ command, Drogon found a strip of open ground to land on. It was equal parts terror and delight seeing the ground approach so swiftly and feel Drogon’s powerful body shudder at the impact. Daenerys’ mastery was complete, and Jon bit back a surge of arousal. A goddess indeed, who could master fire made flesh.

Maester Jaron was the first to touch ground, staggering a few steps away before he vomited up his breakfast.

 “Poor man,” Daenerys said, brow creased in sympathy.     

“Gods above,” Ed muttered, following at a slower pace. His green-tinged pallor said he might follow the maester despite his disgust. Brienne unlashed the tent and rucksacks. Drogon gave a muscular shake to rid himself of the irritating encumbrance. Brienne then helped Willas off of Drogon’s shoulder. Deprived of his cane, Willas’ limp was painful and awkward as he made his way closer to Daenerys. He bowed deeply.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I am blessed beyond measure to have flown with your dragons,” he said, his voice trembling. Daenerys nodded, accepting his obeisance with grace.

“You are most welcome, Lord Tyrell. Have a page guide you to my Warden’s mews. I am certain your grandmother is eager to hear of you,” she said. Brienne bowed as well, motioning for Ed to follow suit.

“It has been an adventure, Your Grace, Ser Snow. I must take my report to Lady Catelyn wherever she may be,” she said, gesturing for Ed to follow. 

Daenerys and Jon leapt off Drogon. Daenerys pressed her forehead to Drogon’s snout, murmuring love words in Valyrian. Together, they watched Drogon leap into the sky to dance with his brothers. Jon offered Daenerys his arm.

“Let’s find Robb. We have much to tell him,” he said.

The Warden of the North was not in his tent, but his serving men were quick to offer a warm meal. Jon sank onto the bench in Robb’s tent with a sigh. The runny camp stew with chunks of rabbit and beef amid thin brown gravy was ambrosial after weeks of hardtack and jerky. Daenerys ate with equal zest, uttering a pleased sound as she tore a fresh loaf of sourdough bread in half. Jon poured ale from a flagon and groaned in delight.

“Thank the gods Robb thought to bring ale,” Jon said, draining the horn cup in one pass and pouring more. Daenerys’ nose wrinkled, but sipped without demur. The page laid the bundle of Jon’s clothes on the table and bowed.

“My la—I mean Your Grace, I could not find any gowns for you. The—the only women traveling among us aren’t . . . aren’t suitable--” the young smooth-cheeked page flushed crimson, staring at the toes of his boots with absorbed fascination. Daenerys arched a brow, glancing down at her black steel armor, at the crowned helm set aside on the table. Jon pressed his palm over his mouth to hide a smile.

“A fresh tunic and trousers will do, perhaps a squire’s size. A gambeson too, if there is one to be had,” she said with some asperity.

“Yes, Your Grace! Right away!” he said.

“They are not used to your ilk here, love,” Jon said as the tent flap fell closed behind the page. Daenerys tossed her windblown braids over her shoulder with a careless flick of her head. She had the look of a smug cat grooming herself in a windowsill.

“I suppose not,” she said.  

The page returned with garments for Daenerys, and offered to guide her to the bath. Jon was loath to be separated from Daenerys, but since the two of them were merely engaged, he could not enjoy the pleasure of bathing with her. Daenerys squeezed his hand before parting, saying she had raven scrolls to send. The thought of Tyrion choking on his wine when he read Daenerys’ announcement of their engagement made him smile. The page led him to a tent where a barrel tub waited. Jon sank into the heat of the tub with a sigh, at the moment content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, so cute! A short chapter, but I hopefully I'll have more writing time this week.


	34. Part XXXIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Question and the glimmer of an answer

Part XXXIV

 

 

“Ser Stark has made an offer for my hand in marriage, and I have accepted,” Daenerys said. The words were formal enough to obscure the giddy joy bubbling inside. The only sound to greet her was the soft crackling of the brazier, the faraway snatches of conversation, and the clop of horses beyond the tent’s walls.

Robb Stark, Warden of the North, rose from his chair with a rustle of furs and creak of leather. With that auburn hair and broad shoulders, he made for the picture of youthful vigor and determination. She would be right to trust her men under his command. Daenerys rose to face him, unsure of his intent and unable to read his expression. Eyes shining, Robb closed the distance between them in two steps and caught her in a tight embrace, swinging her in a dizzy circle. Startled and pleased, Daenerys laughed. He set her down, the dazzling smile fading a little as he remembered his dignity. Robb coughed, raking a hand through his hair.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I am . . .” he turned to slap Jon’s shoulder in rough camaraderie, “I am very happy for you both.”

“Thank you Lord Stark . . . Robb. We are pleased as well,” Daenerys said with a bashful smile in Jon’s direction. There was a defiant undercurrent, daring Robb to contest the wisdom of their engagement. _Mine and damn the consequences_. If Robb held an opposing view, he did not voice it.

“We must feast, then! To celebrate! Walder, fetch--” Robb began, summoning his Frey squire with a snap of his fingers. Jon laid a hand on his arm.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, his voice colored with a strange mixture of discomfort and sadness. A frown creased Robb’s brow.

“Nonsense, we can at least toast--”

“There is more we must discuss, Robb,” Daenerys said, disarming the last of his protest with the use of his given name. Jon darted a wary glance at the lumbering boy with the Twins etched on his gorget.

“In private,” Jon said, quiet but emphatic.

Robb sensed the grim tenor of their sentiment and nodded. His hand fell to the plain hilt of his longsword, ready to leap into action. Grey Wind nudged Robb’s elbow, sensing his discomfort.

“Of course. Walder, leave us,” Robb said, gesturing to their seats. Daenerys straddled the bench beside Jon as he told Robb the happenings within King’s Landing, Willas and his quest to free Sansa, the wildfire, and the dreams that plagued him.  

“So you say this . . . voice is calling you to the Isle of Faces? And you must go _now_?” Robb said, his voice heavy with suspicion. Daenerys glanced sidelong, seeing a scowl darken Jon’s face like gathering stormclouds.

The contrast between the two brothers was marked. It was one thing to observe them at Riverrun before she fully understood the tenor of Jon’s moods, it was another to recognize that twitch in his cheek and downcast glance as discomfort, not mulish resentment. Robb wore the easy confidence of a man who had been born to position and respect. His smile was wide and white over the rim of his alecup. Perhaps he thought they were jesting. Her Jon was a grimmer, quieter sort whose smiles once won were breathtaking. Jon drained the last of his ale before continuing.

“I know it sounds mad, but it’s true,” Jon said, with a defensive hunch of his shoulders. Robb’s nod was measured, the last of the smile ebbing into seriousness.

“Do you think it’s Bran?” he asked. Jon’s sable eyes were deep and fathomless, like the pool in a godswood.

“I don’t know. The voice was unfamiliar,” he said.

“Stranger things have happened. Your Night’s Watch brother said he was riding a snow bear?”

“Aye. Sam is not the fanciful sort. He wouldn’t lie,” Jon said. Robb nodded, his expression open. Robb sank back in his chair, absently petting Grey Wind’s charcoal grey ruff. The direwolf leaned into the scratch, his yellow eyes slits of canine delight.

“I believe you. Have you ever had . . . wolf dreams?” Robb asked, with a hunted glance in Daenerys’ direction. She frowned. What did he mean, wolf dreams? Jon stilled, lips parted in shock.

“You do too?” he asked. Robb took a swig of his ale. A couple drops beaded on his mustache before he licked them away.

“Aye, I’m always running through the snow. Hunting. As Grey Wind,” he said, glancing sidelong at his direwolf. Grey Wind returned his regard with eyes as gold as a harvest moon, gleaming with intelligence. Daenerys felt the kindling with a deeper connection with Jon. He too was linked through a mysterious bond to the symbol of his house.

For a moment, the tent was quiet save for faraway tramp of boots on snow or the faint strains of a lute. A gust of wind buffeted the walls of the tent, making the papers of the tabletop rustle beneath their leaden weights.

“You agree to this plan, Your Grace?” Robb asked.

“Yes. I trust Jon’s judgement. From what he has told me, the intrusions are becoming more frequent and more . . . disruptive. To wait would only invite a more serious attack at an inopportune time.”

From the tail of her eye, she saw some of the tension ease from the line of his shoulders, and his sable gaze glittered. Gods, how had she doubted his love for her when he looked at her like _that_?

 “Then it’s decided. How shall I serve in the meantime?” Robb asked.

Daenerys rose, contemplating the map and stone figures marking troop movements. Like pieces on a _cyvasse_ board ready for the game to begin. _Except each piece is in truth many hundreds of men and women, each willing to die at my word. I must always remember that._ She cleared her throat, pinning the wolf marker under her finger. At least her fingernails were clean and well-trimmed now after a long soak.

“Fortify your position outside the city. My men will arrive from Casterly Rock soon, assume them under your command until we return.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Robb said, rapping his knuckles on the table. His blue eyes flicked to Jon with a gleam of speculation. The corners of his mouth were upturned, a generous mouth prone to smiling.

“How long will you need on the Isle?” he asked. “Daenerys and I can fly there within a day. It shouldn’t--”

“At least take some men with you. You said yourself you don’t know what you’ll be facing once you land there.”

Daenerys saw from the grim stamp of his mouth that Jon disliked the idea. Perhaps he thought if it all came to naught on the banks of the God’s Eye, he wanted as few witnesses as possible. Daenerys bit her tongue on consoling words. She was queen, yes, but as her consort, Jon was entitled to a say, especially on this venture.

“A half dozen men wouldn’t hurt, should we need assistance,” Jon said, measuring his words.  

“I’ll have them ride north with all haste. With horses and supplies, there is no way we can expect you to fly them, Your Grace.”

“Drogon would object,” Daenerys said dryly, returning to her place on the bench beside Jon.

“An irate dragon is not a thing most men wish to tangle with,” Robb said with a chuckle.

Talk ambled towards more neutral topics, the most recent raven scrolls from Catelyn and Rickon at Winterfell, which horses and supplies they needed. Rosalin had accompanied Robb to the garrison Harrenhal, proving her mettle amongst the healers and herbwomen. There was a gentle fondness in Robb’s voice, and Daenerys was glad their marriage has proven comfortable. Pages were sent running to saddle horses and gather supplies. She and Jon would depart for the Isle within the hour.

Robb halted their progress out of the tent with a gesture.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for. If it is our brother, be sure to box his ears for worrying us so before you send him home. Good luck, Sn—Stark,” he said, blue eyes warm and steady on Jon. One of his brilliant smiles darted across Jon’s scarred face.

“Give us three days, and we will return. Farewell, brother,” Jon said, with a rough embrace. Robb turned to Daenerys, laying gentle hands on her shoulders. The familiar touch should have made her uncomfortable, but Robb had such an easy way to him. It was disarming.

“Jon doesn’t give his loyalty lightly, his heart even less so. That is how I know you are worth all of our hopes. Safe travels, good-sister,” he said, with a tender kiss on her forehead. Absurdly touched by his conviction, Daenerys groped for an appropriate response. She cleared her throat.

“Thank you, Robb. I shall strive to be worthy of your faith and Jon’s love.”

Hand in hand, she and Jon strode to where Robb’s men gathered. A backward glance found Robb framed by the warmth of his tent, flakes of snow in his hair, Grey Wind at his side. _Son of the North._ Maester Jaron lingered outside Robb’s tent, taking advantage of the sunlight to write his notes in a leather-bound journal. He looked up and a smile lit his tired face.

“Your Grace, may I speak to you?” he asked. Daenerys smiled thinly, stifling her impatience. There was little time to delay.

“Of course, maester. I trust you are recovered from your flight this morning?” she said. Maester Jaron tucked his book into his voluminous sleeves, his grin rueful.

“Indeed, Your Grace. My apologies.”

“How are your wounds today, Ser?” Maester Jaron asked.

“Not even a twinge of pain. The herbwoman said the wounds are closing, no need for a bandage now,” Jon said. He rolled his shoulders and stamped his leg to prove his fitness.

“Excellent. Your Grace, I . . . I would like to speak with you on a . . . delicate matter,” he said, darting a glance in Jon’s direction. Jon cleared his throat.

“Of course. I’ll round up what we need,” he said, with a parting kiss on her hand.

Nonplussed, Daenerys followed the maester into the healer’s tent. The smell of old blood and astringent herbs perfumed the air.

“What is it, Maester Jaron?” Daenerys asked, refusing the seat he offered. The maester tidied a bundle of dried meadowsweet.

“Such a useful herb. Sweet smelling when fresh, and tea made from its dried leaves help with pain and fever,” he said.

“Interesting. But you did not ask me here for a lesson on medicinal herbs,” she said pointedly.

“No I did not, Your Grace. During our travels, I noticed you wincing when Ser Snow helped you arm. And you complained of fatigue and loss of appetite.” Daenerys’ scowl deepened. What was he playing at?

“Yes, what is your point?” she asked.

“I think you might be--”

Drogon’s roar shattered the air. Faraway, the sharp whinny of frightened horses, the rapid patter of boots on snow.

“I must go, Maester. I assure you, I feel fine!” Daenerys said, ducking from the tent. Drogon swooped low over camp, his talon dragging on the support of one tent.

She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted: “Drogon!” Through their bond, she felt a pang of hunger. By the time she coaxed Drogon to leave the horses be and land, all thought of the maester’s cryptic words faded.

“Right magnificent beast you have there, Your Grace. Right fine,” Greatjon Umber said, a bear of a man in the North’s furs. His men-at-arms huddled a safe distance away, eyes wide as saucers. Daenerys smiled, admiring the grace and power of Drogon’s body as he shook himself.

“Thank you, Lord Umber. He and his brothers flew straight from the Rock with no sustenance. Could a few sheep or cattle be spared for their meal?” Daenerys said.   

“I’ll see to it myself,” Greatjon said.       

It took some time to gather their supplies and rations and load them on pack ponies. Squires helped Jon arm with plain iron plate, Jon in turn helped Daenerys. By then, the men Robb chose were riding hard north on the kingsroad. The sun broke through the clouds to shine on the blinding white snow. The whole world seemed to glitter with breathtaking white. Daenerys summoned Drogon—now replete from a few hapless sheep—and she mounted. The saddle was warm beneath her, Drogon’s thoughts calm. His belly was full, his mind playful and lazy, like a cat drowsing in the sun.

“Ready to fly, love?” she murmured in Valyrian. Through the bond, he hummed.

As Jon began to follow, another roar shattered the air. Rhaegal dove out of the sky like a green comet, landing hard beside Drogon. Daenerys clenched her legs around Drogon as the ground shuddered. A gout of green fire melted a nearby snow bank into steam, scorching the ground beneath into a black scar.

“ _Lyks_ , Rhaegal! _Lyks_!” Daenerys said, confused. Jon held up his hands, murmuring soothing words. Daenerys reached through the bond and was overwhelmed by the image of Jon riding Rhaegal alongside Daenerys and Drogon. She eased free of the link with a laugh.

“What is it?” Jon asked.

“He wants you to ride him. He’s jealous,” Daenerys said. Jon’s confused scowl softened into a reluctant grin. He darted a wary glance at Rhaegal’s bulk.

“There’s no saddle,” he pointed out. Daenerys drummed her fingers on her thigh. Jon wasn’t accustomed to flying yet, he needed a saddle.

“We’ll switch. I can ride without one,” she said.

An itch settled between her shoulder blades at the press of watching eyes. A small crowd formed, watching as she and Jon heaved the saddle onto Rhaegal’s back. Scattered whispers awed at both dragon and rider both. She heard words like ‘Snow’ and ‘bastard’ and ‘rider.’ Her back went up at such talk, but soothed herself with the thought that they had never known the joy and terror of flight. The men of her army had grown used to her children. For Robb’s men, this was the first time they’d seen them up close. _Let them see the bastard they revile ride a dragon!_

Daenerys took her seat on Drogon’s back, enjoying the warm immediacy of his muscles beneath her. Jon looked so small astride Rhaegal, dark against gleaming green scales.

“ _S_ _ōve_ _s!”_ Daenerys said, echoed by Jon, albeit slightly mispronounced.

Daenerys grinned as Drogon leapt into the sky with a rush of cold, making a note to have Missandei school him on common Valyrian phrases. Drogon gained height in the air, his roar holding a bright edge. The wind keened in her ears, the world below dazzling in its winter raiment. Daenerys twisted around, watching Rhaegal climb in the sky. A skimming thought felt the reflection of Rhaegal’s joy. At this distance, speaking with Jon was impossible, as was discerning his expression. He looked steady in the saddle, for now that would have to be enough.

 

~

 

Jon’s hands shook on Rhaegal’s ridged back, trembling with exhilaration and fear both. Jon wondered if Daenerys ever lost this feeling, the feeling of her blood humming within her veins, the wonder and awe and fear of it, how dull and strange everything felt once her feet touched the ground.

Up here among the clouds, he could forget the worry of what awaited them on the Isle of Faces, the worry of what battle loomed in King’s Landing, the secret worry that Daenerys was too far out of his reach. Here, he was a dragon, as Rhaegal was, beyond peer. Rhaegal roared, breathing a stream of greenish fire before them. Jon threw up his arms, seared by the heat of it. With a cry, he gingerly felt along his leather bracers, now smoking a little. Jon pressed towards the thrumming presence that waited within. _No . . . hurt._ It was not a fluid sentence, or even a coherent image. Jon needed Rhaegal to understand that unlike Daenerys, the fire could burn him. What answered him was confusion, but Rhaegal seemed content.

Drogon soared some distance above them, the tips of his wings shredding curling threads of cloud. Jon leaned forward and right, guiding Rhaegal even with Drogon’s flank. The massive bulk of their respective mounts coupled with the endless scream of the wind made it impossible to speak to Daenerys, which tarnished his joy somewhat. Jon was struck by how lonely she must have been. No one could possibly understand her bond with the dragons, or how petty squabbling seemed when the sky beckoned her. Jon peered below at the grey ribbon of the kingsroad worming northward. It wasn’t long before they overtook Robb’s men, a knot of grey and brown against the white. The snow softened ridges and obscured landmarks, so Jon contented himself with enjoying the warmth of Rhaegal’s scales through the saddle and the winter wind whipping tears from the corners of his eyes.

Even astride a dragon, long travel was monotonous and Jon relaxed into a light doze. The rhythmic flap and jostle of his wing muscles felt soothing. Rhaegal’s humming presence waited. In his mind’s eye, Jon pictured a candle flame wavering in the air, it’s heart a deep bronze pulse like a heartbeat. Viserion darted and swooped between his brothers, gleaming pale as bone in the sunlight. The three of them growled and squealed at each other in a kind of kindred bickering that reminded him of his younger siblings.   

The sun sank towards afternoon and Jon sipped from a waterskin, chewing on a corner of hard cheese. The ground scrolled beneath them, smooth and white as whipped meringue, now tinged gold and rose by the sinking sun. Ahead Jon glimpsed the glimmer of the lake and the dark bulk of Harrenhal beyond, and his relaxation dissipated. The voice beckoning him had been quiescent since the kingswood. Gods, what if this was all in his head?

Drogon dipped closer. Jon saw Daenerys gesture toward the lake, then made a circling gesture with her finger. Jon gave an exaggerated nod, indicating he understood. Her idea of scouting the island was smart. It also gave Robb’s men time to catch up with them. Jon pressed on Rhaegal’s scales as he leaned forward, urging him into a shallow dive. Viserion roared, diving between Drogon and Rhaegal. Jon muttered a curse as the wind of his passing knocked him back in the saddle.

“He might be a bit jealous too, hmm?” Jon said aloud.

God’s Eye Lake lay dark and rippling beneath them. The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose, unnerved by the stillness of it. The Isle of Faces loomed, jagged toothed rocks giving way to a scrubby beach and impenetrable black trees and foliage, wreathed in a ragged veil of fog. Jon scowled down at the island. His belly quavered and Rhaegal growled low, shaking his horned head.

“Aye, you’ve the right of it, Rhaegal. It’s just a mean spit of land,” Jon said.

The two of them circled the island twice, and could find no place for the dragons to land. _We’ll have to row from shore._ Jon directed Rhaegal to land on the southern bank. Drogon joined them a moment later. Daenerys climbed down, shaking her braids loose from her helm. Gods, the setting sun gilding her hair into pale honey and made her eyes glitter deep ocean blue. Beautiful and deadly in her black steel plate. Because he could, Jon framed her face between his hands and kissed her brief but thorough. Pleasure melted warm in his blood, dispelling the lingering tang of unease. Daenerys pressed her forehead to his, pink-cheeked as he pulled away.

“You’re doing very well. Did Rhaegal hurt you with the fire?”

“Singed a little, nothing that isn’t to be expected around a dragon,” Jon said, half-jesting. Daenerys giggled.

“What should we do?” she asked. Jon glanced around. He glimpsed the smoke of a small fishing village to the east.  

“There’s got to be a boat we can borrow. Robb’s men should arrive before sundown.”

“You want to cross tonight?” There was a note surprise in her voice.

“We have men, we have dragons. If things go awry, daylight will make little difference,” Jon said with a tight shrug.

In truth, he feared lying down to sleep so close to the Isle. The thought of that thin, haunting voice worming its way into his dreams again made his skin crawl. Daenerys’ indigo eyes were searching. She laid a gloved hand against his cheek. After a moment, Jon nestled into it, kissing the warm leather of her palm.

“You’re sure?” she asked gently.

“Aye. Let’s be done with it,” he said. Daenerys nodded, reaching for his hand.

“Then let’s find a boat,” she said.

 

The sky to the west held the burnt orange hue of the last dying rays of sunset by the time Jon pushed the rowboat into the water. The boat was loaded with a light tent, a rucksack of supplies, and Jon’s ironoak shield. Daenerys sat propped against the rucksack, trailing her fingers in the water. After poling up the Mander for weeks, rowing the boat with just the two of them cost him little effort.

Jon rowed in silence, watching the far shore disappear in the mist. His sweat was cold, his belly roiling. It was as if a cold corpse’s fingernail was slowly scraping a path up his back. Jon clenched his jaw, trying his best to conceal his unease. Gods, he should have tied Daenerys to Drogon’s back and gone alone. It was his burden, his possible madness, and here he brought his bride into danger? For what? Because he couldn’t bear the thought of facing it without her? What kind of man was he?

“I wouldn’t have let you leave me behind,” Daenerys said, her warm, even voice pulling him from grim thoughts.

“I’m not sure if I should be grateful for it,” Jon said, working the oars with steady, even pulls. The muscles of his back and arms were warm and loose, a good thing if there was to be fighting once they reached shore.

“You should,” Daenerys said, her smile a wet white gleam in the half-dark. Her confident tone coaxed a reluctant grin.

“We’re here,” Daenerys said. Jon craned his head around, finding shore.

He swung out of the boat, landing knee-deep in cold water. His oiled boots kept out most of it, but a trickle of icy water dampened his socks. Together he and Daenerys hauled the boat onto shore, mooring the spike deep into the rocky ground. The trees looked taller and blacker up close, so dense he could scarcely discern separate trunks. Jon spent a moment tightening Daenerys’ armor, then his own.  He heaved the rucksack up on his back, looping his arm through his shield.

“Now, whatever we find, I want you to stay behind me--”

“Jon,” Daenerys’ soft whisper made him shift, groping for Longclaw. His heart hammering in his ears, Jon followed her pointing finger and found a wolf. Silver grey, thickly muscled, watching them with yellow eyes. No, not a wolf . . . a _direwolf_.

“Summer?” Jon whispered.

The wolf lowered his head, peering at both of them in perfect stillness. Then, as if satisfied, he turned and padded toward the treeline. Jon kept his grip on Longclaw’s hilt, motioning for Daenerys to follow in silence. Summer was a silver-grey shadow slipping between black tree trunks, silent on padded paws. Jon glanced down, finding the imprint of his paw in the soft tan mud. Some of the tension bled from him. At least he could still trust his eyes.

They walked through the dark in silence for what felt like hours. The lsle lay in eerie stillness. Not a bird cried, not so much as a snap of a twig to announce an animal’s passing. It lay silent as a sepulcher. Summer stopped turning to face them with gelid yellow eyes. Before them was a weirwood tree, brilliantly, painfully white against the muted darkness, leaves red as blood carpeting the ground. The face carved in the trunk wept red tears and wore an expression of terror or pain.

“Welcome to the Isle of Faces, Jon Snow, and you also, daughter of fire.”

Jon flinched at the sound of that _voice_ , reedy-thin, gasping like a man drowning, yet holding the lingering music of bard. Longclaw was in his hand, strong and keen. He crept around the back of the tree and found a man—or something wearing the face of a man. His stomach turned. The tree was grown _into_ him, roots piercing the tall frame, bones stark against skin as white as the bark. His face gaunt, one eye socket threaded with tendrils of root. The remaining eye was red as fire, clear and piercing as a ruby. Thin lips were pulled back in a grotesque smile.

“We have been waiting for you.”     


	35. Part XXXV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Answers.

Part XXXV

 

 

“Who are you?” Jon’s voice was a harsh rasp, though Daenerys could see his hand trembling on the shield grip. Daenerys laid a hand between his shoulder blades, offering her warmth and comfort. Night breathed cold and quiet around them, only the faintest glimmer of starlight visible overhead. The darkness was deep; the moon hadn’t yet risen. From the dark, this man, this . . . _thing_ loomed, pierced by the weirwood tree. What could he do to them bound as he was in that tree?

“I’ve been called many names. It is not _my_ name that is important,” the thing said. His red eye seemed to glow, like Melisandre’s ruby. The thought gnawed at her composure like a rat in a trap.

“Why is Summer with you? Where is Bran?” Jon demanded. The direwolf in question did not seem bothered by the tree-man. He sat grooming his paws on the dense carpet of crimson leaves. Daenerys dragged in a steadying breath, smelling damp leaf mold, loamy soil, and the tang of Jon’s sweat.

“The winged wolf _flies_ , Jon Snow. You will see him soon,” the thing wheezed.

Daenerys brushed past Jon to peer up at the jagged angles and leathery skin of the tree-man’s face. Scraggling strands of white hair clung to his scalp, a reddish splotch of discoloration, almost like a bruise, splashed on his right cheek.

“Enough riddles! Give us the answers we seek, or I shall summon my children to burn you to a cinder,” Daenerys said with a snarl.

Of all things, the man laughed, a pathetic gasping rattle.

“Such fire, Daughter!”

Discomfited, Daenerys scowled up at him, fists balled at her sides.

“Why do you call me ‘daughter?’ We are not kin.”

The thing’s smile was a travesty.       

“But we are, _daughter_. My father was Aegon, Fourth of His Name, of House Targaryen--” The words were a dash of cold water. Daenerys recoiled. _A family of monsters!_

“You lie!”

The macabre waxy face relaxed into something akin to compassion.

“No, Daughter. I am Brynden Rivers, son of Aegon, called Bloodraven, called a master of whispers, called the Three-Eyed Raven. The same blood flows through our veins,” he said. Daenerys’ mouth hung open, stunned and sick. This man was kin? Jon was beside her, radiating heat and protection. Longclaw’s tip poised above Bloodraven’s remaining eye.

“Why have you tormented me? Why do you want me here?” Jon asked, deadly soft.

“There is a truth that could not pass unvoiced.” All the fine hairs on her body rose, a lead weight settling in her belly. _No, no . . ._   

“Jon,” a young voice, dim and colorless, broke the intense standoff.

Daenerys turned with Jon to find a small knot of people. The first was immensely tall, burly, dark hair salted with white, his smile dim. The second was the auburn-haired boy in the sledge the giant pulled. There were three others, of similar height and bearing, carrying pronged spears. All were dressed in rough homespun and furs, stained from hard travel. Faintly, she could smell the smoke of their fire.

“Bran!” Jon said, sheathing Longclaw and hastening to embrace the boy.

Daenerys followed a slower pace, standing awkwardly to one side as Jon dragged Bran up in a fierce hug. Bran looked so slender against Jon’s armored bulk. Setting him down in the sledge gently, Jon cuff his ear. Daenerys frowned. The boy barely flinched, and bore a look of only mild irritation.

“What was that for?”

“That was from Robb, for worrying us. I’m of a mind to thrash you besides. Hello, Hodor. Good to see you,” Jon said, turning to address the giant with a warm smile.

“Hodor,” the giant said.

“Who are your companions?” Daenerys asked.

The older man, short and stocky in a way that reminded her sharply of Ser Tallhart, stepped forward with a bow.

“My name is Howland Reed, Your Grace, Lord of Greywater Watch,” he said.

Lord Reed laid a gentle hand on the shoulders of the dark haired girl and the slender boy. Reed, the name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place the context.

“These are my children, Meera and Jojen.” The three of them exchanged pleasantries for a moment, much to Jon’s impatience. There was something like relief in banal talk when something as strange and frightening as Bloodraven loomed close.

“Now, I need _someone_ to start speaking sense,” Jon said, folding his arms over his chest. With his thunderous scowl, he made for a foreboding sight. Bran nodded.

“After we escaped from the ironmen at Winterfell, we went north to find the Three-Eyed Raven to teach us. I am a warg, a greenseer, the winged wolf. Jojen has the Sight too. We found the Three-Eyed Raven north of the Wall. He is very old. He needs the Children’s magic to live,” Bran said, as if that was the simplest explanation in the world.

Bran met her gaze and she stifled a shudder. Those eyes held a strange melancholy, an ancient loneliness. Jojen too, looked ancient, eyes green as moss. _A wolf with the eyes of a man,_ Melisandre’s accented voice echoed unpleasantly in her head. Summer, Bran’s direwolf, watched her with yellow eyes. Daenerys reached a cautious hand out for him to sniff. The wolf nosed her palm in greeting and brushed past her to stand beside Bran.

Daenerys moved closer to Jon, casing a wary glance at Bloodraven crucified in the weirwood tree. The world had grown even wider and stranger.

“The Children?” Daenerys repeated, “as in the Children of the Forest?” The books Jorah Mormont had given her on her wedding to Khal Drogo had spoken of stories of green men who nurtured the weirwood trees, capable of sorcery.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Jojen said, “The Three-Eyed Raven draws magic and long life from the weirwood roots. He wished to see you and dragons with his own eyes. We warged into ravens to fly south. Once we found a weirwood tree, Hodor followed Summer south to meet us. It was a close thing bringing him here. He nearly died.” Daenerys glanced at Bloodraven, impaled by the weirwood branches. The mind boggled the words they spoke so casually.

“Why not send me dreams to me?” Daenerys asked.

“Jon was our focus. He has the Gift too,” Bloodraven said.

A shudder raced through Jon. Daenerys licked her dry lips. _Wolf dreams_. If Jon was a warg, then Robb was too.

“No. I’m not,” he said, curt and sour.

“Your soul is stretched thin, Jon Snow. Where is Ghost?” His red eye was unnerving in their intensity.

“He is in the westerlands,” Jon said, eyes stormy. Daenerys longed to comfort him, but even the Mother of Dragons was out of her depth among such company. Bran met her gaze with the hint of a smile.

“Thank you for your patience, Mother of Dragons,” he said knowingly, “I know it does not come naturally.”

“It does not,” Daenerys said, “but we need answers.” He heard the hint of probing in the words and nodded.

“Very well. We have stalled long enough.” Bran looked to Jon, his young face creased with regret.

“What I have to say will change the course of the war, of history.”

“Tell me, Bran, for gods’ sake!” Jon said.

Daenerys could tell from his quivering tension that he clung to his composure by his very fingernails. Bran’s eyes were the deep blue of the Sunset Sea, both beautiful and merciless.

“Daenerys is not the true heir to the Iron Throne. You are.”

The words seemed to hang suspended in the winter air. Like stones thrown into a pool, the ripples skittered wildly across the surface. Jon’s face was blank with shock. Daenerys felt numb, as if floating in cold water staring into a black nothing.

“You were born Jaehaerys Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

“No. That’s not . . . that’s not possible,” Jon said, swaying like a poled ox.

“It’s true, Jon. I was there, at the Tower of Joy the day you were born,” Howland Reed said, his seamed face caught between grief and hope, “Your fa—Ned, he . . . he made me promise never to speak of it. He swore an oath to your mother to keep you safe from Robert.”   

Through the ice, Daenerys felt a moment’s passionate gratitude. Raised as a bastard in the North had made Jon who he was, and she couldn’t help but be grateful to Eddard Stark for shaping the man she loved. Then Jon met her gaze, eyes swimming with pain and confusion. Whatever he saw in her face made his face crease in a scowl, fists balled at his sides.

“You . . . you _knew_?” the words emerged in a hoarse rasp. Daenerys groped for her voice.

“T—Tyrion brought me his suppositions after you rode Rhaegal for the first time. There was no proof, everyone thought Lyanna had been kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar. Why would I bring you pain without cause?” Daenerys reached out to touch his arm. Jon jerked away, blazing with fury.

“I need to be alone.” He brushed past her, stomping through a screen of trees.

“Jon!” Daenerys said, tears trembling in her voice, “Jon, wait!”

He stalked off, heedless of her cry. Watching him go with branches swinging by his passing, she was struck by a fierce regret. She should have told him. Dead leaves fluttered to the ground. Another thought pierced her heart like a dagger of ice. Marriages between aunt and nephew, uncle and niece were not uncommon, even amongst northmen. But . . . but what if their newfound kinship disgusted him? What if he . . . what if he . . .? Daenerys staggered a little, feeling sick. A black, sucking abyss yawned beneath her feet. She wanted to scream. She wanted to burn the forest down. She wanted to run after him and beg.

“Give him time, Your Grace,” Howland Reed said. His dry, weary voice dragged her from her thoughts. Gods, she _hated_ the pity in his face. He closed the distance between them, folding a scrap of parchment into her hand.

“This is for Jon, from Ned. He gave it to me when he rode south to King’s Landing,” he said. Daenerys accepted it and hugged herself, feeling achingly alone amongst strangers. The girl, Meera, gave a tactful cough.

“We found hot springs on the Isle, Your Grace. Let me help you with your tent,” she said, shouldering the rucksack. Daenerys nodded, dazed and numb.

“I could use your help, Hodor,” Meera said, moving past Daenerys toward shore where their boat was moored.

“Hodor,” Hodor said, pausing to haul Bran closer to the weirwood tree.

“Daughter, come. Let us talk,” Bloodraven said, beckoning with a flutter of a bony hand. Howland and Jojen Reed excused themselves to their camp.

Daenerys walked over, sinking down to sit cross-legged before the weirwood tree. Cold damp seeped through the seat of her trousers.

“It does my heart good to see you, Daughter. Aemon would have relished it as well,” he said softly.

“Aemon?”

“Aemon Targaryen, son of Maekar. He became a maester chained in service to the Night’s Watch. He died shortly before you landed on Westeros.” _Fairly typical then. The good men die, and all that are left are monsters and cowards,_ she thought bitterly.

“I wish I could have met him,” Daenerys said, her voice an empty husk.

Silence fell for a moment. A thought pierced the fog.

“The pretender, the one who calls himself Aegon Targaryen. Is he also of our blood?” Daenerys asked. Bloodraven leveled her with a gimlet stare, his expression remote. She waited, trying not to blink at his grotesque visage.

“He is of Targaryen blood, but he is not born of Rhaegar as Jaehaerys is.”

Daenerys felt a moment’s fierce satisfaction. A liar and turncoat traitor. She would take pleasure in bringing him to justice. Bloodraven said something, and Daenerys blinked back to the present moment.

“What did you say?”

“I have a gift for you,” Bloodraven repeated, motioning to Bran.

The boy tossed aside the furs of his sledge and heaved an object. Daenerys rose to her knees, accepting a sheathed blade. The hilt and crossbar were plain rounded steel, the hilt braided leather. Daenerys felt a tingle in her palms, as she grasped the hilt and drew the blade a thin span. The steel was polished mirror bright, the edge stark and keen. Her heart pounded at the sight of the distinctive banded pattern in the dark steel.

“Her name is Dark Sister, wielded first by Visenya Targaryen, First of Her Name.” Daenerys’ eyes flew wide.

“Dark Sister? How--?”

Bloodraven’s single eye gleamed with delight.

“She came to my hand many years ago, and followed me to the edge of the world. A partner as deadly as she is beautiful. She has a thirst for blood. The original crossbar was broken in a wildling raid, I thought a plainer one would do just fine.”

“She is . . . magnificent. Thank you,” Daenerys said, tucking the sword into the crook of her arm.      

Daenerys sank back on her heels, reaching for the unfurled raven scroll to find Ned Stark’s neat hand.

‘ _Jon, I am sorry you had to learn this news from a man who is a stranger to you. There were times as you grew to manhood I wished to tell you, but it will never be safe while Robert lives. His hate for Targaryens is a madness in him. You are a Stark, you have my blood, no man alive can deny that. Never forget that, or how much you mean to me, Ned_.’

Any of the earlier sangfroid at received Dark Sister was swept away as hot hate bubbled up like the molten blood of the earth. Daenerys was possessed by a desire to tear the parchment to shreds, to fling the Stark ring into the depths of the lake. _Five sentences to excuse a life built on a lie?_

“It was his right to know,” Bloodraven said. Daenerys nodded, swiping away the stray tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes.

“There is more,” Bran Stark said. Daenerys twisted to face him, muscles taut as if to take a blow.

“Tell me,” she said, congratulating herself on how even the words emerged.

In a dry, toneless voice, Bran told the sad tale of Lyanna, not kidnapped by Rhaegar, but spirited away to be his clandestine bride. Then the battle with Robert Baratheon at the Trident, and Lyanna, bleeding her life away in childbed, giving Jon—named Jaehaerys—to her beloved brother Eddard. Tears welled and overflowed, sliding down her cheeks in swift silver tracks. Born of love, not rape. Orphaned from the day he took his first breath. . . and lied to every day since. Her heart was a mosaic of pain and joy, sorrow and fear. Gods, as Rhaegar’s son, he had a better claim to the Iron Throne than she! 

“Jon is a man of honor, Mother of Dragons. He will stand by you and your child.”

The words burned through her like drops of acid on her skin. Daenerys leapt to her feet, Dark Sister in hand.

“What did you say?” Daenerys said. Bran seemed unmoved. His training amongst sorcerers and seers made him as remote and impassive as a monk, it seemed. Rage boiled up, the flickering roar of a dragon’s fire.

“You are with child, Mother of Dragons.” Her hand moved of its own will, slapping Bran across the face so hard her palm stung.  

“Don’t you dare speak such _lies_ to me! Don’t you _dare_!” she hissed. Bran watched her with unblinking blue eyes, the red imprint of her hand livid on his cheek.

“The maester was trying to tell you something this morning. Tender breasts, loss of appetite, fatigue. You remember. You felt the same when you carried Rhaego.” His young face blurred through a film of tears. Her heart shrieked and wailed inside her chest, battering against her ribs like a madwoman in a cage. Daenerys wrapped her arms around herself, breaths coming in harsh sobs.

“ _Shut up_. Shut up, I command you! You will not torture me with _hope_. I have not bled in the years since the witch cursed me. I’ve had other lovers since Drogo and never quickened. I.  Am. _Barren_.” There, the stark, bloodless truth. She had steel enough to face it, no matter how it tormented her.

Bloodraven’s voice of dead rustling leaves and dying gasps washed over her: “‘ _When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the rivers run dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves_.’ Mirri Maz Dur spoke true. You would never quicken again, not with _Drogo’s_ child. Any maester could tell you the lack of moon blood could have been due to repeated rape--”

Daenerys would have struck him, would have cut that lying tongue from his skull, but her last shred of sanity pulled her back. Instead she fled. She turned and ran in the forest, crashing through foliage. Anguish made her swift, tears made her graceless. Her armor blunted the clawing scrapes of branches, muted the blows of bouncing off unseen trunks. She ran until a stitch burned her side, until her breath came in sobbing gasps. Daenerys sank into a nest of dead leaves at the base of a tree, huddled in a tight ball clutching Dark Sister, and wept.

The storm ravaged her without quarter. The sorrow and grief within the abyss was bottomless. She wept heaving sobs, she wept hard enough to make her retch, then wept again. _It can’t be true. It can’t be. I’m not . . ._ her hand fell to cup her belly. _If I look back, I am lost._ Well, the past stared her face, she could do nothing else but look. Her misery deepened. Though conceived in love, if such a miracle was true and she was pregnant, would her child be a burden—a _chain_ —in its father’s eyes?  

Overhead her children roared. Though too far away to reach them, their concern helped her stem the tide. Her tears ebbed, leaving her exhausted with a pounding headache. Wiping tears and snot and bile on her cuff, she staggered upright. The night around her was utterly silent, cold and sharp as glass, the darkness complete. She stamped life into numbed feet, grateful her armor trapped her body heat.

Unable to see the stars, or even the trees in front of her, she wandered for an untold amount of time, fear creeping up to lodge a knot in her throat. Her joints went liquid with relief when Summer appeared, silent and silver as the mist. He guided her back, not to Bloodraven and the weirwood, but the tent Meera and Hodor pitched for her. Beyond a screen of trees, she saw the orange glow of their campfire, but could not hear them.

Thankful for small mercies, she took a steadying breath and entered the tent. It was empty, save for their belongings. Meera had smoothed out their bedrolls, left bowls of lentil stew. Daenerys ate the cold sludge without appetite, though the waterskin was appreciated. It was possible to unarm by herself, but it took some struggling and cursing to undo the buckles to her breastplate. After a moment’s deliberation, she laid Dark Sister into the cage of her breastplate.

Shedding its heavy weight was a relief, padding on smooth rock to the hot spring even more so. Daenerys shucked off her damp and grimy gambeson, under-tunic, padded trousers and socks. The winter chill assaulted her naked skin. Her teeth chattered as she eased one leg into the pool, then the other. The pool was only waist deep if she stood in the center, but she squirmed lower until submerged. The heat and steam did their patient work, and soon she felt warm, but empty, wrung out of all emotion.

Daenerys felt as if her bones had melted until the moment she crawled from the pool. The cold waited, making her shiver as she hastily dried herself with her tunic. Without a fire, the tent and bedroll were scarcely warmer. Daenerys curled in a ball in her bedroll, drifting into a thin doze. A part of her waited for the tread of Jon’s step. What would he want? To quarrel? To fuck? She wasn’t sure which she would welcome, or what she would say once he returned. All she could do was wait.           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew that was a tough chapter to get through, a lot of beats to cover. I hope it flowed well enough. Comments appreciated!


	36. Part XXXVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon wrestles with the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut

Part XXXVI

 

 

“The son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.” Even said aloud in his own voice, the words sounded like something out of a bard’s tale, not his life.

Jon didn’t know how far he walked, only that soon the muscles of his legs burned, his lungs ached. A small clearing greeted him below a starlit sky. Wreathed in mist with a deep, damp cold, it reminded him of Winterfell. Jon paced the width of the clearing in quick, restless turns. The movement was calming, and he paced for what felt like hours. His mind followed a similarly narrow, repetitive track. Not a Snow, but Targaryen. Not a bastard, but an heir. Not Jon, but Jaehaerys.

“Lies! He lied to me,” Jon said, pausing to rest his head on the rough bark of an ironoak. The water was deep and dark below him, deep enough to drown him, holding secrets and lies. Powerless even in this, Jon felt the welter of emotions shift.

“He lied to me!” Jon shouted, punching the tree trunk hard.

The pain rattled up his arm, but there was relief in it too. Jon struck again, and again and again until blood slicked his knuckles. His hands throbbed, but he relished it. Jon panted, his breath coming in thick white clouds. He remembered his dragon musings and uttered a harsh, rusty laugh. A dragon indeed.

With a harsh sigh, Jon sank to sit at the base of the tree. In a rather eventful life, Jon now could count this as the strangest day he’d ever had. Seers and sorcerers, tree-men and secrets taken to the grave. Jon closed his eyes. Bran with his voice, devoid of emotion or color. Bloodraven and his twisted face. Daenerys . . . Daenerys’ face floated in his mind’s eye, pale as snow. _Why would I bring you pain without cause?_ Her silence hadn’t softened the blow, no, his ears were still ringing with it. Not a Snow, but son of a line famed for dancing close to madness. Not a bastard, but a child born of rape. Not Jon, but someone else.

They were kin. Such matches didn’t cause any great fuss, especially amongst Targaryens. His anger against her slipped through his fingers, like trying the clench a handful of sand. He loved her. The truth of his parentage didn’t change that. To his shame, there was a faint tinge of relief in that realization. Jon heaved another, deeper sigh. _The gods must be laughing, that Daenerys and I would meet and love as we do._

Jon climbed to his feet and began walking in the direction of what he thought was camp, hearing the flutter of a wings. A raven cawed from a branch, and soon he heard the crunch of leaves beneath heavy booted feet.

“Hodor hodor,” Hodor said, with Bran strapped to his back. Bran greeted him with a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He had changed from the happy boy he knew climbing Winterfell’s walls.

“You found me,” Jon said, looking up where he lay slung to Hodor’s shoulder.

“I did.”

“Anymore life-altering truths to share, brother?” Jon asked with acerbic humor. Not ‘brother,’ he remembered too late, but ‘cousin.’ Bran shrugged.

“You heard your parentage, but not the deeper truth of it. Lyanna and Rhaegar were a love match when they wed. Rhaegar intended to set aside Elia Martell once the war was won.”

It was a meager comfort, that it was not pain and horror that made him. Still, mother and father both were dead, and the man he’d grown up worshipping as his father was in truth his uncle by blood.

“The world would be quite different, had they lived,” Jon said, rubbing his aching hands.

“Aye,” Bran said. For a moment, silence reigned save for the sound of their footfalls on the dead leaves.

“Will you break your troth with Daenerys?” Bran asked. Jon scowled. “Why in the seven hells would I do that?”

Bran made no reply. They walked toward distant firelight, the night breathing silent around them.

“I’ve missed you,” Jon said. A glimmer of the old Bran darted across a world-weary face.

“I’ve missed you too, brother,” Bran said.

 

The tent was dark, without so much as a flutter of movement from within. Jon kneaded the back of his neck. The turmoil of Bran’s revelations still churned so close to the surface. He needed time to restore his composure. Daenerys’ emotions were surely as volatile and confusing as his own . . .

Jon parted the toggled flap and slipped inside. Meera had lent him a tallow candle for their tent, and he cupped a hand to protect the flame.

“Daenerys?” he whispered. Through the cracks of his fingers, golden candlelight painted   her form in thin stripes. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot from weeping, her expression haunted. At a loss for words, Jon set the candle in the sconce carved in the support post and began the laborious process of disarming. Daenerys stayed curled on the bedroll, watching with unreadable violet eyes.

The stink of his trapped sweat wafted up as he shrugged off his gambeson. Jon took a testing step. Meera had spread pine boughs underneath the tent, creating a springy, sweet-smelling mattress beneath their bedrolls. The candle and their combined body heat made the tent felt slightly warmer.

“Father,”— _Uncle_ —“always said the Reeds were the most overlooked and undervalued house in Westeros. I can see why he said so; they make excellent hosts,” Jon said. Daenerys gave a mute nod. She looked so small and forlorn with her knees upraised like that, her hair in wild silver snarls around her face.

“What are you thinking?” she said.

“I’m thinking I was a fool for running off to brood. You didn’t deserve to be left alone to face that,” Jon said, sinking down to sit cross-legged on his bedroll. A flicker of surprise danced across her face. What did she expect? A shouting match?

“It was quite the surprise.”

Jon snorted.

“An understatement,” he said.

Conversation stalled and Jon’s fists clenched and unclenched on his knees. Frustration built inside him, but he held his temper with some effort. He wasn’t the only one reeling from Bran’s news. Daenerys offered him a weathered curl of parchment.

“Lord Reed kept this. Ned Stark wrote it for you.”

Jon took it, his heart in his throat. The words written in his father’s hand stoked the banked blaze inside. He was tempted to wad the letter into a ball and throw it away. There was so much left unsaid. ‘I’m sorry for lying to you.’ ‘I love you.’ ‘I’m sorry for letting you go to the Wall.’ ‘Your mother loved you.’ Those were the words he wanted, and would never hear. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the writing into black smudges.

“He would have let me spend my life on the edge of the world, let me _die_ there without . . . without . . .” Jon said thickly, the words fading to ringing silence, torn between the fire of rage and the ice of sorrow. Jon clenched his eyes shut for a moment, passing a hand over his face. His abraded knuckles throbbed.

“I suppose I just need sleep,” he said, mustering a weak smile. Daenerys chewed on her lower lip as she did when she was conflicted.

“Then you don’t want to . . . sleep elsewhere?” she asked. Jon frowned, a cold emptiness opening in his belly.

“Why would I want that?” Jon asked, his tone ragged and harsh.

Suddenly, the space between them was intolerable. Jon lunged to his feet, dragging her upright with him. The anger was in his blood like a fever, as blisteringly hot as dragonfire. Beneath the anger was the cloying slick of cold fear, just as endless. No. She couldn’t leave him. She couldn’t. His breath came in harsh pants. 

“Do you think I care we’re related? Do you think this changes anything? It doesn’t matter!” he said, shaking her. Through her silent impassivity, a glimmer of her fire warmed her eyes. Daenerys swatted off his clinging grip. Jon clenched trembling fists, trying to fight down the towering rush of emotion.   

“This changes _everything_ , Jon!” Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile, “Gods, that isn’t even your true name!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he repeated stubbornly.

Daenerys gave a contemptuous snort, pacing the close space of the tent.

“Of course it does! You are Rhaegar’s only living son. You are the true heir, not I.”

Jon scowled. Was she jealous? As if he had control over who his bloody parents were! Jon turned to face her.

“You think I give a single fuck about that bloody chair? You can have it. I never wanted it.” Her violet eyes flashed murder, contempt stamped on her face.

“As if it’s yours to give! I care. I _care_ ,” she said thumping her chest for emphasis, “I’ve had to fight tooth and nail for everything I have. I’ve endured rape and defilement, enslavement and degradation to earn it. The Iron Throne is _mine_.” Jon’s blood pounded in his ears. Her ferocity enraged and enflamed him.

“Keep it. Damn it woman, haven’t I proven I will follow you to the ends of the _earth_?” he said, yanking her close by a grip on her folded arms. A flash of vulnerability streaked across her face. It was the leaving the struck her deepest, not which heir had a better claim. _Though I’m sure it stings._

“Let go of me,” she said, her voice hoarse and small.

Jon slid one arm around her, the other fisting in the loose fall of her hair, like silver silk between his fingers. It looked as pale and luminous as spun moonlight against his tanned hands and bleeding knuckles. Her pupils were wide and dark like a wild thing.

“ _Never_ ,” he whispered, feeling the incensed flutter of her breathing. Blood surged south, his cock twitching in his trousers.

“You are _mine_ , Daenerys Targaryen,” Jon said in fierce undertone.

Jon sealed the words with a biting kiss, seeking to devour her mouth. Her soft sound of surrender touched the bellowing male part of his mind, enflaming him further. Mm, the plush texture of her lips, the thrust of her tongue, the hot, upward spiral of pleasure. Her mouth was tentative against his, stunned by his sudden passion. Jon’s hands clawed at the lacings of her trousers, shoving them down. The seams of her tunic whined as he yanked it over her head.

_Yes_ , laid bare before his hungry gaze. The candlelight kissed her pale skin in a soft golden glow, catching the glossy shine of her silver hair. Jon’s eyes wandered over her puckered nipples, delicately pink, the ripe weight of her breasts, the delicate curls of her sex. Gooseflesh stippled her skin. She hugged herself, shivering.

Jon lunged close for another kiss, smoothing his hands over her breasts, the other cupping the swell of her buttocks. Daenerys’ hands made quick work of his trousers, shoving them down far enough to pump his cock. Jon broke the kiss to groan, yanking off his tunic. He swept her up in his arms, laying her down on a bedroll.

“Come here to me. I need you wet. I’m going to fuck you until you remember who you belong to,” he said, his voice so guttural it was almost unrecognizable.

Without waiting for her reply, Jon pried her legs apart and dove in. The scent of her musk and the soft flesh of her cunt under his tongue fed his arousal. He lapped and probed and suckled, drinking in the dew of her arousal. Her body knew, he thought, and pleasure would remind her. Her cries came in gasps and whimpers, and her hands tangled in his hair left no doubt she was willing. So _good_. The craving for her hadn’t lessened. Jon still ached for her, in his soul. Tension gathered in her arching hips, in the bite of her nails on his scalp, and . . . _yesss,_ her thighs clenched around his head, mouth flooded with her juice.

Jon slid up her body and sheathed himself in her in one fluid stroke. Jon groaned at the tight clutch of her, slick muscle gripping him. Hot pleasure made his heartbeat roar in his ears, breath in deep gulps. It was that same glorious fire roaring between them, and Jon wondered if it would burn him to a husk. Daenerys wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms tight around his chest. He set a punishing rhythm, using his weight and strength to pound into her.

The tent was filled with wet slap of flesh meeting, the haze of heat and sweat. Beneath the musk of sweat and sex, he could smell the tang of resin and pine needles. Daenerys moaned with each thrust, raking her fingernails down his back. Jon snarled at the sting and reared back to pin her wrists above her head, not slackening his pace. Daenerys thrashed in his grip, arching to meet each of his thrusts. There was something in her that needed to fight, needed to hurl herself against his strength. Jon let her, aroused by her wildness.

The tenor of her cries grew sharper, tension gathered in her muscles. Almost . . . _gods_ yes! Daenerys shuddered as her release swept her up. Jon grit his teeth, fighting off the rising tide of his own release. Her eyes slipped closed.

“No! Look at me,” Jon snarled, framing her face between his hands. Wide violet eyes deep and dark in the low light, met his, brows drawn together.

“See who has you,” Jon said. She held his gaze, transfixed as he was, as he thrust in hard, deliberate strokes. Mm, gods he would never stop craving her sweet cunt, the heavy, musky tang of her pleasure.

His own pleasure hovered near like a brewing storm. He growled, fighting it. Jon pulled out, pumping his cock in rough strokes. With a choked cry, Jon came, spilling his seed in thick white drops on her breasts and belly. It was a primal impulse, to mark her as his. Daenerys made a low sound, smearing his seed over her belly. Jon thrust back in with a hiss, bathed in her slick heat. He sank down, pressed chest to chest as they rocked together. Jon pressed his forehead to hers, clinging to the last dregs of it. Daenerys’ hands threaded through his hair, tender and sweet.

“I’m yours and you’re mine,” Daenerys said hoarsely, pressing a kiss to his chin. Jon moaned, seeking her mouth. Lips met and tongues thrust, sloppy and lazy in the aftermath. After the storm, there was only peace in her arms. Peace and belonging. _Home_.       

Jon gripped her hips, smoothing his hands up the soft, sweat-dewed skin of her sides, cupping her breasts. So beautiful. His bride.  

“I love you,” he whispered, choked with emotion. Daenerys’ eyes shone with a blur of tears.

“I love you too,” she said, pulling him close. The tenderness and trust in her gaze undid him.

Jon arched his hips, his cock surging back to full hardness. Mm, he discovered he loved riding that line between pain and pleasure in the attempt to fuck her again. Daenerys’ breath came in a soft whine, inner muscle shivering anew around him. Jon hooked his arms beneath her shoulders and drew her upright in his lap. Daenerys purred, legs wrapped around his hips. Her fingers threaded through his hair, cupping his skull as they kissed.

Jon enjoyed the novelty of tilting his head back to kiss her, arms supporting her back beneath the warm silken fall of her hair. Daenerys arched her hips in short, steady thrusts, milking his cock. Sweat dewed on their undulating bodies, their bellies sticky with his come. Jon hummed, pressing kisses in a jagged path down her throat to her breasts. Her pert nipples were sweet little buds to suckle, though he broke off at her soft cry. Jon scattered air-soft kisses on each breast in apology. Daenerys gave a handful of his hair a sharp tug in playful retaliation.

“More,” she hissed in his ear. Jon made a low sound, urging her up with a grip on her hips.

“Hands and knees,” Jon said, with a soft smack on her arse.

Jon noticed the way her hands trembled in handfuls of the bedroll and remembered too late what she’d told him. Offhand, as they toured camp and found Dothraki copulating beneath an open sky she mentioned they knew little other way to join. Her Dothraki husband, renowned for his brutality . . . he cursed himself for not understanding sooner. His arousal flagged a bit at the thought. Jon smoothed callus-roughened hands up her back, following their path with his lips.

“Are you well, love?” he asked. Over her shoulder, Daenerys’ eyes were wide and soulful.

“Yes, Jon. Come _here_ ,” she whispered. Jon palmed himself, feeling torn. His cock throbbed back to full salute, uncaring of this byplay and eager to return.

With a frustrated sound, Daenerys batted away his hand and guided him inside. A choked sound left him, a shudder racing through him at the welcoming _heat_ of her. Jon leaned over her back, suckling on her neck and behind her ear. One arm wormed beneath them, cupping her mound as he thrust in slowly. Daenerys mewled as his fingers teased her pearl, her body stretched out almost flat on her belly beneath him. Jon crooned a string of half-coherent praise and love words, fighting the rising tide of his own pleasure: “So good my love, my Dany . . . Gods, you feel so _good_ . . . oh _fuck_ . . . I love you . . . so fucking good . . . I’m yours forever . . . gods, come for me. Be a good girl and come for me.”

Daenerys panted and squirmed in his grip as pleasure sobbed through her. She turned to bite on the inside of his forearm as cunt milked him. The sting of her teeth was the fine point of pain that sent Jon tumbling over the edge. When he returned to himself, Jon rolled over slightly, gathering her to his chest in the damp, trembling aftermath. Daenerys made a soft, sleepy sound, nestling back into his grip. Jon dragged the bedroll’s cover over them, already the cold began to seep in.

A stray thought floated by, and he chuckled.

“It’s a good thing not many people know Robb legitimized me. It would be very confusing now,” he said. Daenerys rolled over to face him, a frown lingering on her brow.

“We have much to discuss. What will we tell people? What name will you keep? We have proof, the scroll with your fathe--” she broke off, with a moue of distaste. Her fingers pushed his sweat-damp curls off his forehead in a restless, tender gesture.

“Ned Stark is my father. I cannot forgive him . . . not yet. But he was the man I knew as my father,” Jon said, kissing the furrowed spot between her flexible brows.

“As to the rest, we will puzzle it out. Go to sleep. Tomorrow will be a tiring day,” he said, letting his eyes slip closed, soothed by her stroking his hair.

“Yes, we need to fly back to King’s Landing--”

“Aye, we will. But first, I want to marry you,” he said, lips curving in a smile. Jon cracked open one eye, and laughed at Daenerys’ stunned expression.

“Marry me? Here? _Now_?” she asked, wide-eyed. Jon grinned down his nose at her.         

“There is a heart tree and witnesses. As far as I’m concerned, that is all we have need of. Are you having second thoughts?” he asked, the last with a hint of teasing. Their bond reaffirmed, Jon felt lighter than he had in months. His smile fell. Something in her expression that made his gut clench.

“Daenerys?” he asked, his voice small. Jon tightened his grip on her, half-afraid she would bolt into the night. Tears filled her eyes, one trickling down her cheek. Jon cupped her face, smoothing away the tear with his thumb.

“O—Of course I want to marry you,” she quavered. _Everything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit._

“But?” Jon prompted. His gut churning, Jon strove for composure. Daenerys looked miserable.

“Bran t—told me something else. He said . . . he said I was with child.” Jon blinked, his mind a blank white slate for a moment. A . . . a child? Emotion began to trickle in, surprise and joy and fear wadded in a dense ball.

“Is that possible?” he asked softly.

“There’s no way to tell yet, without my moon blood,” Daenerys said, chewing on her lower lip, “But the maester was trying to tell me something before Drogon made a fuss. My breasts have been tender; I’ve been tired of late. Those are early signs.” Jon smothered the smile growing on his face at her heartbroken expression. _Gods above, my woman is a puzzle wrapped in a riddle._

“And how do you feel about this?” he asked.

The tears welled and fell faster now, a silent, silver trickle down rosy cheeks. His heart ached. Jon was at a loss as how to comfort her, and equally honored that she would share her vulnerability with him.

“It . . . it can’t be possible. I can’t bear the thought of it,” she said.

“Why, love?” Jon asked, wiping away her tears with gentle hands. Daenerys nestled closer, tucking her head under his chin. Jon pressed his cheek to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair.

“Because what if it isn’t true? I couldn’t bear to have that hope taken away from me again. I don’t think I could survive it.” The words emerged muted by the press of their bodies, garbled by thick emotion. Jon squeezed her tight to his heart.

“You are the strongest person I know,” he whispered into her hair.

“I couldn’t bear it,” she said again, a sob thick in her throat.

“Ssshhh, love. Let it out if you need to. I’m here,” Jon crooned, stroking her back.

Daenerys wept in his arms, soft, shuddering sobs that tore at his heart. Her tears were a chilly wetness on his chest, but he didn’t mind. Whether she wept for sorrow of the child she lost or the fear of what lay before them, he wasn’t sure. But soon the tide ebbed, and they lay in silence for a long moment, watching the candlelight waver on the canvas walls of their tent.

“Bran has spoken truthfully thus far. He wouldn’t lie to you about something like this. I think he’s right,” Jon said gently. Daenerys looked up at him, and for the first time he saw a glimmer of dawning joy in her face. She threaded her fingers with his and cupped her flat belly.

“A _child_ , Jon. Yours and mine,” she said wonderingly.

“Yes. Our babe,” he said with a smile. Jon tilted her chin up to kiss her, tasting the salt of her tears. They subsided into silence, replete in love. Daenerys nuzzled his cheek, her skin smooth against the rasp of his beard.

“Bran also said you were a man of honor. That you would stand by me and my child.” The pence dropped.

“And you didn’t want to marry me before telling me about the babe,” Jon said. He heaved a sigh. Jon rolled her beneath him, pressed nose to nose—so close, he could feel the flutter of her eyelashes as she blinked.

“You aren’t trapping me in a marriage not of my choosing. In fact, I think I’ve been chasing _you_ across this bloody continent for the past year. Marry me, Daenerys, and I’ll spend the rest of my life making you believe I love you.” Daenerys’ smile was like sunshine.

“I believe you. I’ll marry you anywhere.”

 


	37. Part XXXVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joy beneath crimson leaves.

Part XXXVII

 

 

“Are you ready, Your Grace?” Meera asked. As dawn broke cold and glittering with a coat of frost, she and Jon slipped from their tent to soak in the hot spring. Clean as hot water and a comb could make them, the two of the dressed in their grimy gambesons. Breakfast around the shared fire was a quiet one, though sweetened by piping hot tea and grain pottage, rich with honey. Ravenous, Jon devoured three bowlfuls. Jon calmly announced their intent to marry, and preparations began thereafter.  

It was a strange wedding by any reckoning. The witnesses were a crangoman lord, three children, a direwolf, and a half-giant. The officiant was an ancient bastard scion of her house, twisted by magic and crucified in a weirwood tree. The bride wore the same sweat-damp gambeson she’d donned at Robb Stark’s camp. At least her armor gleamed like black oil, the red enamel flames and dragon red as blood. Daenerys nodded in answer to Meera’s question, adjusting her garland. Meera had woven weirwood leaves and pale snowdrop blooms into a garland for her hair, and the sweet scent hung in a cloying cloud around her.

“Thank you, Meera. For your kindness,” Daenerys said. She flushed, hiding her angular face beneath the curly fall of black curls.

“Think nothing of it, Your Grace. I’m glad I am not the only woman here.”

“Me too,” Daenerys with a smile.

Meera and Jojen raked the crimson weirwood leaves into an aisle of sorts, leading to where Bloodraven languished and Jon waited. Lord Reed, Jojen, Meera, Bran, Hodor, and Summer were arrayed in a semicircle framing the heart tree. The sun filtered in rich golden beams through the branches, dappling the ground with its light. The sky was a brilliant cloudless blue overhead. Her children flew far above, filling the sky with the music of dragons. Her groom was dressed as she was in his gambeson and armor, curly hair tied severely from his face, looking at her with his heart in his eyes.

As a queen, she needed no escort, and took measured steps to join him. Her heart skipped and danced in her chest. Daenerys felt as if she was walking in a dream, floating above the ground. At the same time, her senses were sharp and brilliant. Faraway, she could hear the faint lap of the lake on smooth rock. Beneath her boots, there was the crunch of dried leaves. The air smelled of turned earth and leaf mold. The chill made her hands tingle.

Was she really here, about to marry Jon with their child beneath her heart? She held the thought with anxious tenderness, still half unwilling to believe it to be true. Daenerys fell sharply into the present moment as Jon took her hand. So warm and strong. A hot jolt rushed through her at the contact. She would never grow tired of how he affected her. Lord Reed had seen the scabbed crusts on Jon’s knuckles and offered salve. Daenerys ran a gentle thumb over the knuckle of his littlest finger. Jon’s sable eyes shone and he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. The dry brush of his lips sent a bolt of heat straight to her loins.

“Who comes to this holy place to be wed?” Bloodraven’s reedy voice said. Even the Three-Eyed Raven had dressed for the occasion, a black Night’s Watch cloak draped over the branches piercing his body, the stray strands of wispy white hair combed straight.

“Jon, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna, of Houses Stark and Targaryen,” he said in a clear, strong voice.

Daenerys tightened her grip on his hand. Love made her chest cramp in something that was almost pain. Such a strong, loyal heart, an easy humor and calculating mind. It was so like him, to accept change with equanimity, and claim both houses as his. She knew all things would not be so simple, especially when it came time to tell the ones he cherished as siblings of his true heritage, but for now and from this day forward, he was hers.

“Who else comes before the old gods to be wed?” Bloodraven asked.

“Daenerys, daughter of Aerys and Rhaella, of House Targaryen.”

“And who gives you away in marriage?”

It was a sacred part of this ceremonial conversation, to establish betrothal and lineage. Daenerys wondered in a different world, if Rhaegar would have given her away to wed his son. Her throat closed at the thought.

“I give myself,” Daenerys said. As queen, it was her right. Bloodraven’s red eye gleamed.

“Then before the old gods of the forest, in this place tended by The Children and before these chosen witnesses, do you Daenerys, take this man to be your husband?” Daenerys faced Jon, folding both of her hands in his.

“I do,” she said, her heart soaring up to the sun with her children. Though his face was set in a polite mask, the tension in his jaw and the emotion blazing in his eyes gave away how her words moved him.

“And Jon, before the old gods of the forest, in this place tended by The Children and before these chosen witnesses, do you take this woman to be your wife?”

“I do,” he said, voice thick. Daenerys’ heart beat hard against her ribs, flooded by joy and disbelief by turns. The ceremonial exchange of cloaks would be omitted, of course. Both Jon’s and Daenerys’ were travel-stained and torn, hardly an omen befitting a symbol of their wealth.

Jon’s squeezed her captive hands, nodding toward the weirwood tree. In unison, they knelt before the tree at Bloodraven’s feet. This rite spoke of humility before the gods and requesting their blessing on the union. Daenerys’ Targaryen blood balked at bowing to anything, but it was before the gods of Jon’s family. For him, there was little she wouldn’t do. Damp cold seeped through the knees as her trousers. She closed her eyes. The wind sighed through the trees, rattling bare branches. The rustling weirwood leaves crooned hushing sounds, like a nurse to a babe. There was a touch of benevolence, as gentle as the brush of a butterfly’s wing. She focused on the beat of Jon’s pulse against her palm, the warm strength of his fingers. The thud of his heart, blood of her blood, flesh of her flesh. Husband. _Mine_.

“You may rise,” Bloodraven said, beckoning them with a bony hand.

Together, she and Jon rose to their feet as husband and wife. Jon’s solemn mien broke into a dazzling smile, snatching her close to kiss her. Daenerys’ soft laugh was smothered by the press of his lips, warm and familiar. Daenerys moved her lips to capture his taste, the sweet magic that burned between them. Jon’s rough swordsman’s hand cupped her cheek, banishing the chill with a blaze of heat. His tongue darted out to caress hers. Arousal churned through her and she broke the kiss with a gentle tilt of her chin, breath coming quick and soft. Consummation before witnesses wasn’t necessary, she thought. The wolfish hunger in Jon’s sable gaze made her mouth water though.

“Blessings, Daughter. May the old gods guide your way,” Bloodraven said. Daenerys approached the tree and squeezed his cold, thin fingers.

“Thank you,” she said.

Lord Reed, his children, and Hodor surged forward, offering their congratulations. Summer yipped and padded in circles around her and Jon, silver tail wagging furiously. Daenerys accepted their congratulations. With a hoarse laugh, Hodor bent and wrapped her in a crushing embrace.

“Hodor hodor!” Hodor said.

“Yes, thank you Hodor. Thank you!” Daenerys wheezed, patting his shoulders.

Jon laughed, accepting a similar embrace as Hodor set her down. Jon turned and scooped Bran from his sledge in a rough embrace and Daenerys saw the first true smile grace his young face. Then, a chilling spasm creased his face, his eyes misted an opaque white. Summer uttered a long, low howl, raising the fine hairs on her arms.

“Bran? What’s wrong?” Jon asked, his voice sharp with fear.

A glance at the weirwood found Bloodraven in a similar state. Daenerys shared a bewildered glance with her new husband, fear stabbing needles in deep. Meera’s sharp cry made Daenerys turn. Jojen fell back as if struck, muscles thrashing and foam filling his mouth. Lord Reed and Meera hunched over him, Meera steadying his head and Lord Reed prying open his jaw to force a stick between his teeth.

“What’s going on?” Daenerys demanded.

“The visions, Your Grace,” Lord Reed said, petting Jojen’s sweat-matted hair as he thrashed, “The Sight takes its toll.”

“All of them are . . .” Daenerys asked.

“Aye,” Meera said, her dark eyes haunted. The eerie, opaque silence seemed to last forever, but at last Jojen’s body relaxed. He blinked, green eyes clouded, but lucid. Bran and Bloodraven sank back, their rigidity fading.

“What did you see?” Jon asked. Daenerys couldn’t read the expression on Bloodraven’s ravaged face.

“Winged wolf, where did you fly?” he asked, with the infinite patience of a tutor. Bran wiped the film of sweat from his face and raked his hand through his hair, his auburn waves sticking in all directions.

“South,” he croaked. Lord Reed stood, offering Bran a waterskin while Meera tended Jojen. Bran drank deeply and when he spoke again, his voice was clearer.

“South to the capital.”

“What did you _see_?” Daenerys said, tempted to shake the answers from him. Those ageless blue eyes met hers. He and Jojen said in unison: “Death.”

 

Her first wedding to Khal Drogo had lasted all day with feasting under a hot sun and the incessant throb of drums. In his usual expedient manner, Drogo was perfunctory in his consummation. Now wed to Jon, there was no feast, no music and certainly no time to consummate their union. Bran’s visions were of battle outside King’s Landing. Since Robb would not have attacked without provocation, it was safe to assume Cersei’s creatures had staged an attack. Lord Reed helped Jon finish with his armor. Hodor and Jojen dismantled their tent and packed their belongings.

“Where will you go?” Jon asked, holding one arm stiff so Lord Reed could settle the bracer in place. From his sledge, Bran shrugged.

“I don’t think the Three-Eyed Raven can return north. I must continue my training. For now, Jojen, Meera, Hodor and I will stay here.”

“I will go home. It has been too long since the men of the Neck were seen in battle. Consider this my oath of allegiance, Your Grace,” Howland Reed said with an awkward half-bow in her direction.

“I am grateful for it, Lord Reed,” Daenerys said, lifting her arm so Meera may tighten the breastplate closures. The jostling pressed on her breasts uncomfortably, but Daenerys relished the pain. The unexplained irritants now slid into focus after Bran’s harsh revelation. With child . . . and now wed.

“Send a raven to Winterfell, at least. Your mother and Rickon are there. They will be eager to hear of you,” Jon said with a stern scowl in Bran’s direction. A flash of vulnerability darted across Bran’s face.

“I will. They must know what has become of me.” Daenerys blinked, taken aback by the tang of misery in his voice. Did he realize how deeply he had been changed, and lament it?

“Your vision of battle, Bran. You’re sure it’s happening now?” Daenerys asked in a gentle tone.

“Time is different in my visions. I can see people who have been dead a long time, or those who haven’t been born. I can see what is happening now, but on the other side of the world. Or what _could_ have happened. There is too much,” he said.

“Bloodraven?” Jon asked. The Three-Eyed Raven spread his hands.

“The winged wolf speaks truly. From what I can sense, if this disaster has not yet happened, it will very soon. You must hurry.”

Meera helped Daenerys belt Dark Sister, snug against her left hip. Daenerys gripped the hilt, unused to the weight.

“My warrior wife,” Jon said, tugging her close enough for a quick kiss.

“My lord husband,” Daenerys said, finding a smile amid the tales of visions and death.

“Just be careful not to hurt yourself. Valyrian steel is lighter and sharper than you think it will be,” Jon said, tugging her swordbelt tight.

“I’ve never used a sword before. I’ll be useless with it,” Daenerys said with a frown. Jon pecked a kiss on her furrowed brow.

“It’s simple, really. Stick them with the pointy end,” Jon said with a grin.

Hodor loped up, twisting his hands in the grubby hem of his tunic.

“Thank you Hodor, for taking care of Bran, and for all your help,” Jon said, patting his arm.

“Hodor,” he said.

“He should go with you. He can row faster than you,” Meera said, offering Daenerys her helm.

“Summer will go with you too,” Bran said.

“But Bran, Summer is--” Meera began.

“The winged wolf is right,” Bloodraven said, his eyes flashing briefly that opaque white, “his soul must ride with you. Summer may hunt with his brother.”

“I will be able to help a bit, at least, through Summer,” Bran said. Daenerys felt a prickle of foreboding. Wargs and witches, long experience had taught her to mistrust them. And yet, Bran was of Jon’s blood. She saw words of protest bubble to Jon’s tongue, but he bit them back.

“Very well. Let’s go.”

Farewells were quick, but heartfelt. As tumultuous as their time on the Isle of Faces had been, Daenerys would always remember it with fondness. Every woman remembers her wedding day.

The rowboat cut smoothly through the lake, Hodor’s burly arms moving in long, fluid sweeps. The half-giant’s expression was smooth and serene, watching a pair of swallows dart to catch flies over the lake. Summer sat at the prow, tufted ears pricked, long pink tongue lolling in a canine smile. Daenerys threaded her fingers through Jon’s, peering up at the sky. Her children swooped and twisted in the clear blue expanse. Though too far away to touch their thoughts, they knew she was close. Drogon let out a bellowing roar. A tendril of smoke signaled the cookfire of Robb’s men, oblivious of the changes they had undergone in two short days. Daenerys took a deep breath, trying to calm tautened nerves. Bran, ‘the winged wolf’ and his prophecies of doom and death . . .

“I suppose there is no way I can convince you to stay aloft with Drogon and not engage in battle,” Jon said. A sidelong glance found his face set in a scowl. Their honeymoon had been dismally brief. Daenerys rested her forehead briefly on his armored shoulder. 

“You would be right,” Daenerys said in a soft voice. She drew their joined hands to rest on her belly, just below her navel. There was a dull ache in her heart at the thought of their child growing there, and a sharper pain when she thought of that child in danger. Still, her dragons were pivotal forces in battle, and Jon wasn’t proficient enough a flyer to manage on his own. Jon pressed his hand over her belly, exhaling a shaky breath.

“I’m of half a mind to lash you behind me on Flint’s saddle and ride for safety.”

“What about th--”

Jon interrupted her with a kiss. He took his time, hot mouth slanted over hers, deepening it with languorous strokes of his tongue. The kiss blew on the embers from the night before and soon she was brought to a fever pitch, wet and aching. Jon eased off, pressing his forehead to hers. Daenerys’ chin tingled from the scrape of his beard.

She blinked her eyes open, studying his face in the brilliant morning light. Such contrast. Pale skin and dark hair. Rugged brooding eyes, the hard angle of his jaw, and a lush, sweet mouth, thick, wild curls. The shine caught glints of silver in his deep grey eyes, his mouth red, framed by his dark beard. Little of Rhaegar’s fine-cut features in him.

“I’d like to think of myself as a simple man. A man of honor, loyal, dutiful. But when I think about my wife and child in danger, gone even from my sight . . . I find I’m not an honorable man. My only thought is carrying you to the highest, strongest tower and barring the door,” he said. Like a giggling new bride, Daenerys blushed at the word ‘wife.’ But the words were difficult for him to voice, and after so many blows to who he thought he was, Jon must feel lost within his own mind. Daenerys tenderly combed a wayward black curl behind his ear. _Did Lyanna had such delightful curls?_ Rhaegar’s hair had been straight and silver, like hers.

“You are the best man I know. Smart, strong, honorable, an incredible lover--” he snorted in reluctant laughter, swallowing down tears, “and don’t think I’m not of the same mind. I want you safe, always. You bear too many scars,” she said, petting the straight one slashing through his left eyebrow, gleaming silver in the light. Jon kissed her palm.

“But because you such a good, honorable man, I know it would tear you apart if we did run. I know you couldn’t leave Robb to fight for his life, or any of the others we love. We must fight.”

“Perhaps we may find time for that tower after the war is over,” Jon said, the heat of his gaze making her melt.

“We will make time for it,” Daenerys said. 

Robb’s men were waiting on the far bank as Hodor swung out and dragged it aground with one hand. Summer leapt off and loped south with a flick of his silver tail. Hodor barely looked winded, though he’d been rowing at a sharp clip for some time. Hodor picked her up beneath her arms as if she were a child and deposited her on the bank.

“Thank you Hodor,” Daenerys said, tugging her swordbelt straight with a queen’s dignity.

“Hodor,” he said, turning to do the same to Jon. Her husband shrugged off the giant’s pawing and gave him a rough embrace.

“Take care of Bran,” he said, with a pat on his arm. One of the Winterfell men greeted Hodor kindly, offering a bowl of pottage and a waterskin before he began his trek back across the lake.

“Did you find what you were looking for, Ser Snow?” one of the knights asked—named Stern, she thought.

A change settled over Jon, a slight stiffening of posture, as if adjusting a load. The mantle of leadership, she knew it well. When he spoke, though in his usual low-voiced burr, the words rang with authority: “That and much more. The queen and I were wed before the heart tree.” His hand discreetly touched the rucksack. Within there was a scroll stating their marriage and signed by witnesses, legal before any authority in Westeros. Stern’s dark eyes flew wide. His knees quivered, as if an abortive gesture to kneel.

“Ah . . . congratulations, Ser, I mean Your--” he broke off with a helpless glance in her direction. Daenerys smiled.

“I am a bit unclear on the nomenclature myself,” she said with an arched brow at Jon. He shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter. ‘Snow’ will do,” he said. Stern nodded, tugging his forelock. Jon cleared his throat.

“We must ride for King’s Landing with all haste. There is word of battle,” Jon said. Stern nodded, turning to bark orders at his men.

The camp seethed. A page hastily poured water of their cookfire with a hiss of white steam, two squires slung tack over their shoulders, a knight cursed as he tripped over a tent line while shrugging on his armor. Daenerys and Jon crunched through frost-furred grasses several yards from camp. Jon cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: “ _Drogon! Rhaegal! Viserion_!”

A thrill raced through her watching them dive toward them. Was this how their enemies felt, seeing their glittering bulk fall like stars from the sky? _Gods, it must fill them with such terror to see muscle and fire screaming down at them!_ Drogon roared, flaring his wings and landing with a crash a few yards from them. Rhaegal and Viserion followed suit. Her ears rang from their sound, and her heart warmed at the sight of them, gleaming in their brilliant shades in the morning light.

As the dust settled—Rhaegal shaking his great body at the unaccustomed annoyance of saddle—Daenerys moved to each of them, murmuring love words, testing their bond. It hadn’t mended as she’d hoped after the hellhorn. Still, it was no longer a single thread of spider’s silk connecting them. _Perhaps a bowstring, then._ Daenerys bit the inside of her lip to stifle half-hysteric laughter. Battle would be that much harder when she had to struggle to communicate with her children.

Drogon filled her vision, nudging her gently with his snout. Daenerys blinked back to the present.

“My love,” she said, embraced by his heat and smoke. They would face it together, her children and Jon. Drogon’s amber-red eyes moved to Jon, uttering a clicking sound. Daenerys grinned, recognizing the sound as one he usually saved for her.

“Drogon says ‘hello,’” Daenerys said. Jon looked up with surprise from scratching Rhaegal’s jaw.

“Aye? Well . . . _Rytsas_ , Drogon,” Jon said, his pronunciation a bit flat. Through their bond, Daenerys offered the image of Jon’s face and a feeling of welcome. Drogon blew a puff of white smoke in Jon’s direction. A glance over her shoulder found that Robb’s men had struck camp. A plume of dust announced they were riding hard for the kingsroad.

“Come, let’s fly!” she said, picking her way up Drogon’s back. Her first attempt to sit had Dark Sister’s hilt jabbing her in the belly. With a curse, she adjusted the sword to lay a bit higher on her hip. From Rhaegal’s back, Jon watched her progress with some amusement.

“Ready, my wife?” he shouted, tightening the leg straps.

“ _Sōves!”_ she shouted, maintaining his gaze as Drogon leapt into the air.

The sky was blue enough to drown in, the ground below a monotonous palette of dirty white. Rhaegal and Viserion settled into positons on Drogon’s either flank. Peace settled over her, as it always did when she flew. Her reprieve was brief as Drogon’s powerful wings carried them south. Her worries were plentiful. The eerie strangeness of the world behind her: Brandon Stark and his visions, the brutal truth of Jon’s parentage, the child that was both a joy and terror inside her. Before her was just as uncertain. Battle and death, Bran and Bloodraven had said. How had the tide turned against them? Where was the pretender, now revealed to be not a true Targaryen, but a Blackfyre? 

“More questions crop up like mushrooms,” Daenerys said aloud to Drogon. The dragon made no reply.

The wind was with them, carrying them south a swift pace. With anxiety churning in her belly, the leagues seemed to multiply and stretch. Daenerys drank from her waterskin and ate the half-stale sandwich of bread and goat cheese Meera had packed in their rucksack. Despite her impatience, it was mid-afternoon when King’s Landing appeared gleaming red in the distance. Gouts of black smoke rose, oily and noxious, but she couldn’t tell if it was from within the city or without. With a flick of the mental rein, she urged her dragons to contain their speed. She would need every ounce of their strength for the battle to come. Daenerys leaned over, peering at the ground.

“Gods,” she whispered.

When they had left it, Robb’s camp was the picture of efficiency and northern might. Now, it was a splintered ruin. Tents were collapsed or on fire, the rear guard and baggage wains scattered, men and horses running in all directions like a seething anthill. Daenerys saw a flutter of the Stark’s pale banner, which was the only encouraging sign. Beyond the camp, on the plain before the city, two armies clashed. Though impossible to discern sigils or battalions from this distance, one thing was clear: they were losing.

 


	38. Part XXXVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle over the Blackwater.

Part XXXVIII

 

 

“Jon, this is madness!” Daenerys said, deft gloved hands busily tightening the girth straps on Drogon’s saddle. It had taken a torturous amount of time to find the rear guard, Westerosi and Unsullied alike fighting hard pressed. Drogon and Rhaegal took care of the swarming soldiers with some relish as they landed. Viserion was a distant white gleam overhead, his white-gold fire carving black furrows in the ground. Squires hurried to help the two of them locate the spare dragon saddle, and find Jon a mount, gloves, and a helm.

“Thank the gods you’re here, Your Grace!” the squire said, much too small for the hauberk he wore, the drape of ringmail fell almost to his ankles.

“We’ll give the lions a hiding for their trouble, I promise you that,” Daenerys said, her eyes gentle on the boy. Jon shoved on the helm given to him, setting his foot in the muscular black destrier’s stirrup and swinging astride.    

“The men on the ground will be slaughtered if I don’t reestablish command. Then I will join you in the air, I promise!” Jon said. Daenerys yanked the last strap taut. Though her expression was slightly obscured by the scale-etched helm a squire fetched for her, the emotion swimming in those violet eyes was easy enough to read. His beautiful wife.

“I intend to have a husband in one piece by day’s end. We have yet to enjoy our honeymoon,” she said with the wobbling hint of her usual wicked smile. Jon’s answering smile was a more a grimace.

“Is that an order, my queen?”

“Yes. Take care,” she said, climbing up Drogon’s shoulder and settling in her saddle.

Jon watched as Drogon took to the air. The wind of his wings buffeted Jon, the black lunged against Jon’s grip on the rein, tossing his head. Drogon cut through the film of smoke, barbed and dangerous. And Daenerys, a fleck of sliver amidst the blackness of his scales, with Dark Sister on her hip _. Balerion the Black Dread and Visenya Targaryen reborn_ . . .

Jon slewed the destrier around, taking stock. The rear guard, under the command of an Unsullied captain, quickly reassembled after Drogon’s intervention against the splintered cortege of Lannister horsemen. Mounted knights formed a near-impenetrable perimeter, interspersed with pikemen. Seeing them gather, there were shouts from beyond the rear guard for the Lannister men to fall back, buying them breathing room. The baggage wains, women, squires, healers, and injured men were safe. All stood poised to retreat north to the garrison at Harrenhal should the battle turn.

Robb had brought the siege weapons, Jon trotted through a forest of trebuchets and catapults flinging stones and burning oil back toward the city. Had the reinforcements arrived from Casterly Rock? Had Asha made her attack on Blackwater Bay? What had sparked this attack? Jon clenched his jaw. Every moment wasted as another where men died. Jon drew Longclaw, settled his shield on his left arm and heeled the black into a slow lope towards the fray. His breaths rattled within the confines of his helm, fluttering in a warm gust over his face. The eye-slit was narrow, but he could still see the field.  

Chaos waited.

Riderless horses bolted through the ruined camp, knocked over tents in their wake. Westerosi cavalry formed a ragged front, though knots of men locked in pitched battle littered the field. The northmen had held their line, but it looked as if the Lannister host was widening the front thinner, trying to outflank the northmen. Pushed yards away from their camp and rear guard, the Lannisters would succeed if something wasn’t done.  Jon scanned the field, picking out a knot of men fighting under the flying brown giant on a red field of House Umber. The Greatjon was leading the van, then. He should--

“Rebel scum!” an armored knight shouted, galloping towards Jon.

The battle-calm waited, encasing him in a bubble of icy clarity. A nudge of heel and rein sent his destrier swiveling onto his hindquarters, facing the oncoming quartet of mounted men. Jon raised his shield, catching the advancing spear blow. The shock rattled up his arm. Jon twisted his shield arm, hacking off the spearpoint with Longclaw. Left holding a broken stump, the man’s dark eyes were wide through the eye-slit of his helm. Jon opened him from shoulder to navel with Longclaw. Valyrian steel cut through ringmail like a hot knife through butter. Blood rose in a fine red mist. Jon loathed killing, but the least he could give them was clean death.

The second man slashed down to hamstring the black; the horse sidled beneath Jon. With a grunt, Jon swept out the heavy ironoak shield knocking the man from the saddle. Jon swiveled to block the low sword slash from the third man. Longclaw pierced him through the throat. The fourth man shrieked, spurring his horse forward. The red roan charger was bigger and more aggressive than Jon’s black, pawing out with its forelegs.

Jon raised his shield to ward off another sword blow when a silver blur caught the tail of his eye. The man Jon unhorsed let out an unholy scream. Summer snarled as he tore at the man’s throat. The remaining mounted knight cursed, slewing his horse around to retreat. Jon took him through the back with Longclaw. The thunder of his heartbeat was loud in his ears.

“Thank you, Summer,” Jon said, panting, “Now go find Grey Wind. We have to find Robb.” The direwolf watched him with yellow eyes, tongue lolling in a pant, sticky blood dripping from his muzzle.  

Jon felt the bellows blow of the black’s heaving lungs beneath him, his coat frothy with sweat along the rein line. A warhorse no matter how brave couldn’t be asked to face a dragon and a direwolf all in one day. Jon urged the black toward the front. Behind him Summer tilted his head back to unleash a loud, undulating howl. What better for a rallying cry?

“ _Winter is Coming_!” Jon bellowed, raising a bloodied Longclaw in the air. In the distance, he heard Grey Wind’s deeper answer. Along the front, the northmen shouted the words of their house, digging in with renewed fervor. Not far behind Summer galloped the men that rode with them to God’s Eye Lake. Horse and men alike exhausted from hard riding, there was no rest to be had.

“Snow!” Stern shouted, saluting with his battle axe.

“Stern! Form up!” Jon said. They fell into formation behind Jon.

Both Greatjon and Smalljon weren’t far from their bannerman. Smalljon’s destrier was bleeding its life away on the ground, the snow so soaked with blood it looked red-black. The metallic, almost meaty smell of it filled the air, along with mud and shit. Looming in matching suits of shining steel plate with bear pelts on their backs, the Umbers made men fall before each swing of axe and sword.

“Umber!” Jon said, dispatching a Lannister pikeman harrying Smalljon.

They stood on a shallow rise, the Lannister men had to scrabble up slushy snow to meet them. Waves of them crashed against the northern shield wall. Beyond the scrum of men and horses, Jon saw rank upon rank of red-liveried footsoldiers and the faraway gleam of a golden armor. Jamie Lannister himself. Another banner flapped in the center. A red bowman on a green field. He felt a pang. It was Samwell’s father, Randyll Tarly. A famed commander and hard son of a bitch, by any man’s telling.

Jon glanced overhead. His wife did not take kindly to her men being slaughtered like sheep. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion darted and swooped like demon gods from the sky, gouts of fire consuming an entire rank in one pass. A needle of fear pierced his heart, she was flying too close to the city walls. If even one scorpion bolt flew . . . a howling pikeman summited the rise, swinging his barbed weapon wildly. Jon knocked aside the pike and dispatched him with a wide slash.  

“Ser Snow! A bit late, are ye boy?” Smalljon said, grinning. Jon was thankful the helm hid his smile.

“In time to save your arse. What happened here?”

A squire dismounted, offering Smalljon his sorrel courser. Smalljon swung up, shoving up his visor. His bearded face was red and streaming sweat.

“Best I could gather, them fuckers sent a raven claiming to be the queen’s men from the Rock. So when the scouts saw an armored force marching in at the hour the wolf from the west, we didn’t realize what was about until it was too late.”

“Where’s Robb?” Jon asked, steeling himself. The Stark banner still flew . . .

“A crossbow bolt took his horse. The poor beast fell on him. Last I saw, the healers were tending him,” Greatjon said. Jon swallowed the news with as much equanimity was he could manage. He was alive, that was what mattered.

“We held ‘em until after dawn, then the Lannister cunts starting flinging pots of wildfire. Horses spooked, tents and men alike went up in flames, it was a bleedin’ disaster,” Smalljon said.

“Wildfire?” Jon asked, scanning the high walls of King’s Landing. Black smoke belched from within the walls as well, the bells of Maegor’s Holdfast pealing.

“Looks like it bit them in the arse. They haven’t flung anything save rocks in some time,” Greatjon said. Jon rose in his stirrups, squinting down the line. The right flank was flying the black iron studs and bronze field of House Royce of the Vale. To the left, he glimpsed a banner of a black fish leaping over red and blue waves. The Blackfish.

“We hold the line at all costs,” Jon said.

“With every ounce of our blood, we will hold it,” Greatjon promised.

“Three of the Seven Kingdoms will prove their mettle today,” Jon said, gathering his reins. Relief would come, in the form of Asha or the Rock’s men, or even in the form of Daenerys on wing. Either way, the city would fall . . . if they could make Cersei pay enough in blood.

 

~

 

Daenerys urged Drogon higher and higher in the sky. She relaxed into the striving of his muscles, trying to dampen the fear in her belly. Jon, alone on the ground, with the camp shattered and leaderless below them . . . _No. Focus._

A dragon’s eye view would tell where she was needed. The wind whipped tears from the corners of her eyes. Drogon spread his wings, coasting on an updraft of warm, smoke-thickened air. The battlefield spread beneath her, as remote as a map marked with crawling ants. The sunlight off the snow was blinding. Daenerys’ eyes watered, a red after-image danced behind her eyelids as she blinked. The ragged line near the ruins of the Stark camp was bowed back, thinned by the advancing Lannisters. Gods, if the line broke, it would be a rout.

Daenerys peered at the city walls, finding trebuchets launching stones, or clay pots of burning oil. No ballistae that she could see. To the east, Blackwater Bay lay as smooth as a millpond, glittering like beaten silver. Ships moved below, as small as a child’s toys from this height. Beneath a brilliant sun, Daenerys’ heart soared at the sight of red dragons painted on sails. _Asha Greyjoy_! Daenerys looked to the west, waiting for the cloud of dust presaging the arrival of her men from the Rock, Dothraki, Unsullied and Westerosi alike. Blank, snowy landscape answered her.

Cursing, Daenerys reached for Rhaegal and Viserion. She wished for the hundredth time that she hadn’t let Jon stay on the ground. What was the use of two dragonriders if one of them rode off on a bloody horse? In her mind’s eye, Daenerys could see the faint warm glow of them, like a distant bonfire, but they flew too far to sense their thoughts. She clenched her eyes tight shut, pushing her intent. Drogon loomed, the throbbing heart of the bonfire. His mind thrummed close, anger and hunger hot and keen as a blade.

“Come, my love,” Daenerys said aloud. Leaning forward in the saddle, guiding him with a grip on his spikes, Daenerys framed the center of the Lannister line between Drogon’s horns. King’s Landing cast a sharp dark shadow as the sun slanted westward. Part of the force stood in the shadow of the walls.

“ _Dracarys_!” she said in Valyrian, smiling into the wind.

Drogon opened his maw, unleashing a stream of black-tinged fire. Rhaegal and Viserion guarded either of Drogon’s flanks, diving alongside with gouts of fire. Beautiful, glorious fire. The flames twisted together in her children’s colors: black and green and white. Their fierce joy washed through the bond, each strained eagerly against the mental rein. The smell of battle thickened the air: the tang of blood, the reek of smoke and shit, and the tang of churned earth.

The Lannister men kept rank . . . little good it did them. A horrid breath to scream, and then bones and ash were all that remained. A faraway thought wondered if Jamie Lannister was among them. A part of her would regret ending Tyrion’s brother. Another, larger part said he had made his bed, now he must lie in it. Cersei was a poison she intended to be rid of. Daenerys leaned back in the saddle, Drogon responded, shifting back to hover even with the crenellations of King’s Landing’s walls. Daenerys could see her children’s flames reflected in their frightened eyes. Drogon uttered a defiant roar, making her ears ring.

“ _Dracarys_ ,” Daenerys said.

Fire washed over the stone in a living river, drowning the men gathered there. Daenerys warded off the pang at killing them. They stood poised to hack and burn and kill her men. A now-familiar whistling sound. Daenerys ducked close to Drogon’s back, watching the arrows patter against Drogon’s scales. Enraged, Viserion roared, snaking his head out and snatching two bowmen by the torso from the wall. The men screeched, one fell with a sharp scream that cut off as he hit the ground in a broken heap. The remaining man dangled, then Viserion gave a snapping twist of his horned head and the scream cut off abruptly.

“ _Draw! Loose_!”

This time, Daenerys glimpsed the cloud of arrow shafts falling from the sky. One struck her in the arm, pinging off the plate pauldron covering her right shoulder. The force rocked her sideways in the saddle. Another two caught back, glancing blows blunted by her armor.

“Higher!” Daenerys commanded in Valyrian, leaning forward in her saddle. Jon would scold her, flying so close to the walls. She could hear his voice in her head, the northern accent thickened when he was angry or roused. _I lost men going in that stinking city to destroy those scorpions. Don’t dance so close the walls!_

Daenerys urged her dragons higher, out of archer’s range. Daenerys wrenched her eyes shut, pushing Rhaegal and Viserion to sweep along the Lannister line with their fire. Warm blood trickled from her nose, pain a low warning pang at the base of her skull. She swiped away the tickling warmth, peered below into the city. The capital, named for her ancestor Aegon I’s landing in Westeros. She had poured maps, studied songs and histories, dreamed of the home she longed for. After all the striving and hoping, King’s Landing was . . . disappointing. After the soaring pyramids of Meereen and Astapor, after the wide, beautiful streets of Qarth, the fetid odor, close, dirty streets and ramshackle buildings filled her with only the stirrings of pity.

The unholy glow of green fire roared in buildings surrounding the walls. They had tried using wildfire, to great cost. Gods, at this rate, the city would be ash by the time her men scaled the walls! Drogon flew higher, wheeling away from the city. It filled her with a savage pleasure to see Drogon’s shadow darken over the city. Her eye fell to the Red Keep. What was to stop her from flying to those thorny turrets and tearing the evil lioness from her den?

“She would likely be in a plush inner keep with her Mountain and a retinue of other hired killers,” Daenerys said, drumming her fingers on Dark Sister’s pommel. Drogon shook his great head, reflecting her disappointment. The urge to _burn_ and _kill_ throbbed in the burning center of him.

“Come, my love. Let’s show them what it is to pull the dragon’s tail,” Daenerys said.        

~

 

Jon rode for what felt like hours. His shield arm was numb to the elbow. A spear had found the back of his greave. The mail-backed trousers had protected him from the blade, but it throbbed unmercifully. Each breath came in sawing pants, his tongue sticky in his mouth. His grip on Longclaw quivered. The black trembled with exhaustion beneath him.

The hard, bloody work paid dividends though. The northmen, disciplined and seasoned to a man, held the line against the Lannister force—who were mostly made up of conscripts and sellswords judging by their sloppy advances. The Kingslayer slipped back into the city with his tail between his legs as their line at last shattered. Men were slain running for the city, though Jon was quick to urge the northmen to regroup.

Jon watched the green Tarly banner snap defiantly in the wind. The man was like granite. His wall of red-painted shields lay curled around his men, archers and spearmen viciously holding their ground. Jon lifted his weary shield arm to block another barrage of arrows, catching blows intended both for himself and his mount. The man himself, Randyll Tarly, clad in boiled leather and grey steel, wielded his house greatsword Heartsbane with devastating strength. He’d lost his helm, his balding pate gleamed in the sun. There was little of him in Sam’s gentle, bookish heart. 

“Form up, ye squirrely bastards!” Greatjon shouted, heeling his massive barrel-chested destrier up the gap-toothed northern line. The beast tossed its black mane, breath coming in thick white clouds from blood red nostrils. Greatjon’s axe dribbled blood down the leather-wrapped handle to stain the white fur pink on his cuffs. Slushy snow mingled with blood and mud into a sticky paste, men’s boots scrabbled for purchase. Jon nudged his destrier to Smalljon’s stirrup. The Tarly men had formed a porcupine, a formation of men with shields locked together, bristling with spears. If they broke formation, the northmen could rout them, but they could not attack without changing position. For now, the group was neutralized. 

“To the wall! The wall!” Jon shouted, gesturing with a bloodied Longclaw.

The walls of King’s Landing loomed, thick and sturdy. Siege ladders rose under the protection of archers and spearmen. The city defenders threw stones, dumped burning oil, shouting a hail of curses as they did so. A chorus of shrieks to the east caught his attention. Jon glanced up in time to see Viserion snatching men from the walls like a dog snatches rats. A grim smile touched his lips. Slowly, grimly, they were gaining ground.

Maesters and craftsmen had not spent an idle autumn. Heavy ironoak roofs protected battering rams, pulleys were attached to grappling hooks flung to seat the siege ladders. Each could be raised by the turn of a crank from safety. A runner returned, with word that Asha’s ships had shattered what remained of the Lannister navy in Blackwater Bay. They now pressed on toward the city.

Something like excitement filled Jon’s belly. _At last!_ They were so close, poised on the tipping point of victory. Jon rolled his shoulders, considering leaving off to join Daenerys in the air as promised. More than once, he’d felt the candle’s flame of Rhaegal’s mind press close. Jon nudged the black gently with his knee.

A cry rose from the men on the walls, a _cheer_. The fine hairs on his arms rose. His heart sank. Jon twisted in his saddle. Another force approaching at some speed, surging from the south around the city like an evil flood. And whoever they were, the defenders of King’s Landing considered them friends.

 


	39. Part XXXIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle turns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the updated tags, my friends, and buckle up. This one's rough. (and credit to justwanderingneverlost for the gorgeous moodboard!)

Part XXXIX

 

 

“I’ll make you curse the day your mother brought you into this world, Blackfyre!” Daenerys snarled, leaning southward on Drogon’s back.

Drogon loosed a mighty roar in the face of this new threat. A black sigil snapped in the wind, the red dragon mocking her. The colors should be reversed, bastard that he was. What use was the hoax of being Rhaegar’s son? There were many who would support his claim, Blackfyre or Targaryen. Opportunistic scum would leap whichever way the wind blew.

The pretender and his armies, at last she was to face him on the field! _Men who fight for gold cannot lose to a woman._ And lose they would, burning and screaming like all the rest who sought to kill her. The thought filled her with a grim relish.

Daenerys frowned. The force, though impressive with ranks of men, cavalry, siege weapons and armored elephants, all together it looked smaller than she envisioned. Was this the might of all the sellsword contracts in Essos, the Golden Company, the Second Sons, the Stormbreakers, and others? A sinking feeling settled in her belly. Had the pretender sent a splinter force to accost her men from the Rock? That would explain their delay. Her wearied northern men couldn’t hold off this onslaught. The pretender had the Others’ timing.

“They will not get to my men. They will not get to Jon.” She would make sure of it.   

Rhaegal and Viserion roared, filling the sky with their rage. A sound answered them, a smattering of trumpeting cries. Daenerys’ brow puckered, leaning over to see the ranks of elephants, their armor gleaming dully in the sunlight. Towers loomed on their backs, bristling with archers and slingers. It struck her heart that those gentle beasts were whipped and burned and prodded into battle rage. The pretender was loathsome for that alone. She remembered the elephant in Meereen with its great sad eyes.

Through their bond, she felt a reflection of her sons’ hunger. To a dragon, an elephant was a fine meal. Drogon dove sharply, arrows rattling useless against his underbelly, even his thick leathery wings. Such blows could not wound him. The swift movement lifted Daenerys in the saddle, wind rattling within the confines of her helm. The speed and exhilaration made her smile as she unleashed her children: “ _Dracarys_!”

Drogon’s black fire burst forth, curling and twisting in the wind. Even from her saddle behind his head, intense heat washed over her. Rhaegal and Viserion followed suit, and below the men of the Golden Company—their standards with golden skulls gleaming in the sunshine—marched grimly on. The fire slew swathes of foot soldiers and cavalry. The elephants’ large ears flapped in distress, some bolted with trumpeting cries. Drogon skimmed low, intent on tasting the lumbering animal, his mouth watering at the tender meat and hot blood lurking beneath that leathery skin, just the right size to bite . . .

“No. Fly now, my love. Feast later,” Daenerys said with a snap of the mental rein. Drogon bristled under the command. He craned his neck to look at her, tongues of black fire licking along his quivering lips.

“Later. I promise,” Daenerys said. It was a razor-thin line she walked guiding her dragons in battle. They needed an outlet for their frustration, but to allow them to hunt and feast would make them slower, more susceptible to attack. Still, Drogon obeyed because she had earned his trust.

Rhaegal and Viserion scattered the elephants, goading them with fire and the hair-raising echo of their roars. Daenerys urged Drogon toward the dragon banner raised amongst the sellsword banners, a mockery of her own. The ground blurred beneath them, Drogon’s wings beat in taut control—perhaps twice the height of a man above the ground. Drogon’s roar was deep and strident, the assertion of a king.

Horses bolted and plunged, breaking their grand charge into a milling mess of terrified horses, sliding and falling in the snow beneath the whips and spurs of their riders. A flick of Drogon’s tail broke the banner’s pole, the false dragon banner fell to the ground shred nearly in half. Daenerys grinned. No army in the world could stand against her children. Did these men not remember the Field of Fire?

Daenerys peered south. Beyond the charging men was the rear guard and baggage wains. A group of pack ponies, a semi-circle of covered wagons. Energy sang through her. _Ballistae_! Two men tore the tarp away, revealing a barbed scorpion. Too close. Too _close_! Her heart thundered in her ears.

 “Drogon!” Daenerys screamed.

“ _Fire_!”

A hideous crank and twang as the scorpion fired. Drogon tucked his wings, rolling like a cork-screw to the left. Daenerys clenched her jaw to keep from biting her tongue as the world upended. Her brave, clever son, he was too swift for them! Drogon righted himself, wings striving to gain height in the air. Her breath came swift and sharp, the fear and excitement singing through her muscles making her hands tremble. Rhaegal and Viserion shrieked. Viserion dove like a falling star, shattering the machine with a passing sweep his claws. Rhaegal snatched three soldiers from the scorpion’s cart, tossing them up in the air and consuming them in green-tinged flame.

Daenerys urged her children higher in the air in tight formation, flying in wide circles. Men scrabbled for the scorpions. A quick tally found roughly two dozen, some made entirely of metal, gleaming dully in the sun. They’d planning facing her on the field, then. Viserion was the swiftest flyer. He could quickly burn the wooden scorpions. Rhaegal’s fire was hottest, but he would need time to melt the metal ones. Drogon’s bulk and strength would be enough to defend his brothers. Daenerys struggled, straining through the bond to touch their minds. Blood trickled from her nose, pain a steady heartbeat behind her eyes. Her hand strayed to her belly. The shivering part of her soul fretted the stress of battle would harm the babe. Jon’s precious, miracle babe. . .  Daenerys took a steadying breath. She could only focus on the task at hand, and trust the babe had its parents’ resilience.

“Viserion! Rhaegal!” Daenerys shouted. Her sons answered with rumbling growls. Rhaegal snaked his head out to blow a ring of white smoke around her. A rush of affection flooded her, she channeled it in a warm flood through their bond. _I love you, my brave, fierce children._ Viserion preened, Rhaegal wreathed her in smoke, and Drogon uttered his clicking growl.

“Let’s get to work,” Daenerys said.

 

~

 

Jon galloped toward the edge of the western line, now riding a bay courser. A squire shoved a waterskin into his hand as Jon set his foot to stirrup. The water was reprieve enough; there was no time for rest or food, not when the pretender’s dragon flew beside the double pane of Connington’s red and white griffins.

Daenerys flew to meet them, the dragons shining in the sun like buffed jewels: black diamond, emerald, and opal. Fire consumed the field. _Gods, we’re spent. It will be a miracle if we take the gatehouses on the walls with the men we have left. Even with Asha’s fresh men from the Dragonstone garrison, we’re in desperate need of reinforcements._

Jon heeled the bay towards Lord Royce’s men, already forming a front. Umber’s men in the van were busy with the siege ladders, and the Blackfish’s men were galloping hard for Blackwater Bay. The rivermen would be invaluable aid for Asha’s ironborn.

The soldiers were mixed in any company, though as a rule the lord commanded their own men. Vale knights were straightforward, disciplined, and unflappable. Together with the Unsullied stationed at the Harrenhal garrison, it would be a decent defense against the pretender’s sellswords. A grim smirk tugged at his lips. If his wife allowed any to survive their approach. Daenerys and the three dragons had neutralized the Volantene elephants effectively. Their panicked trumpeting and stomping tugged at the heart. It was the animals and children who suffered in war.

Jon loped up and down the line, urging the men into position. He gestured with Longclaw to an Unsullied soldier.

“Go to the siege engines, have them concentrate fire on the center of the pretender’s men,” Jon said.

“ _Issa, azantys_!” he said, tucking his spear across his back and sprinting north to the looming bulk of trebuchets and catapults. Jon pulled up his blowing mount at the Royce banner.  

“Lord Royce, how goes it?”

The Vale lord’s white cape was spattered with mud and blood, his bluff face red with exertion. His son Willem, a sturdy blond young man, pressed a wineskin into his hand. Lord Royce took it with a grimy gauntleted hand. The wine dribbled down into his white beard like blood. Jon swiped the blood from Longclaw on his trousers before sliding the blade into its sheath.

“Ser Snow, good to see you well. The Targaryen boy proves to be an impulsive lout,” he said. Jon’s lips pursed. Given his newfound lineage, it cast the pretender in a different light. _You will not lay a finger on my wife or her children!_  

“Along with a liar and traitor,” Jon said. The battle would prove exhausting for her. Daenerys would need every ounce of her strength.    

“The queen is quite magnificent,” Lord Royce said, eyes lifting to the dragons on wing, “I never thought I would see dragons fill the sky with their fire.” _Fire and Blood_ , Jon thought, now as much his words as the Stark’s.

Jon squinted into the sky, the sun sank towards afternoon and still no reinforcements from the Rock. Men like Barristan Selmy didn’t dither when it came to obeying their queen’s summons.

“She is. Thank the gods for her children,” Jon said, watching Rhaegal shred a hapless destrier in two.

“I’ll join them. The queen will need someone to guard her back,” he said. Lord Royce offered a knife-thin smile while Willem laughed.

“Aye, wouldn’t that be something?” Willem said.

“Ser Snow ride dragon. This one has seen this,” another Unsullied said with a laconic shrug. A look of startled awe flitted across Royce’s face. Jon shrugged, uncomfortable.

“Hold the line, Lord Royce.”

“I . . . I will, Ser Dragonrider,” he said as Jon touched his heels to the bay’s sides. He broke into a controlled canter, hooves sliding on bloody field then, as they left the battlefield behind, crunching through the crust of snow. Jon shoved up the visor, letting the cold wind baptize his burning face. His first clean breath in hours, the fresh air was almost dizzying.

The dragons looked like mythic gods silhouetted by the golden afternoon sun.  

“Rhaegal!” Jon shouted.

The green dragon heard him, white teeth as long as his arm cutting off the flow of his fire. The bronze candle-flame of his mind loomed close. His roar held an almost irritated edge. He could almost hear Daenerys’ voice translating in his head. _What took you so long?_ Jon grinned, dismounting from the bay. A slap on his rump sent the horse trotting back toward the hay promised him with the baggage wains. Jon stretched sore muscles as Rhaegal veered south toward him.

“Come on, let’s burn the fuckers,” Jon said.

 

~

 

If she killed the Blackfyre, the sellswords and traitors would scatter like rats. She scanned the confused scrum of men below. He would be in extravagant armor, perhaps mimicking Rhaegar’s at the Trident. The bloody glow of ruby flashed in the corner of her eye.

There he was, in night-black plate aglitter with rubies, surrounding by a thorny mass of spears and swords. He rode a lathered white destrier, a red dragon laid in rubies on his breastplate. Silver hair fell to his shoulders beneath the crowned black steel helm. Violet eyes met hers, hard with hate. _Lying worm_. To his right, Jon Connington’s griffin helm snarled, within she saw a gleam of seamed blue eyes. This man was said to have loved Rhaegar like a brother. Why then, would he throw his lot in with a bastard pretender?

“ _Blackfyre_!” Daenerys shouted, echoed by Drogon’s roar.

“Is this all you have to bring against me? My children have proven you false. You are a liar and pretender. Surrender and you will be well treated, I swear it.” It was a generous offer by any accounting. He would be wise to take it. Even given his force’s size, all three of her children would make short work of them.

“I will accept nothing less than my birthright, _aunt_ ,” the pretender sneered, drawing his sword. Daenerys smirked. The new steel gleamed pale and clean in the light. Remembering Duckfield’s sniveling, his bared steel did not frighten her. His men loosed arrows and spears at her and Drogon, but he flew beyond their range.

“A bastard’s inheritance is naught but ash,” Daenerys said, holding his gaze. Drogon arched his neck, anticipating the ancient Valyrian word for ‘fire’ to leave her lips—

“You best mind your handsome northern toy, my sweet aunt!” the fair pretender said.

Fear sliced her vocal cords like a knife on string. Daenerys swiveled in her saddle, squinting southward toward the city. Rhaegal swooped over the ground, flying toward a dark speck on the ground—Jon. He was landing to get Jon. Heart in her throat, she scanned the field for danger. The Lannister men had all fled for the safety of the city . . . Daenerys sucked in a gasp. A trio of ballistae, loaded on light chariots, ran at a dead gallop toward the two. Rhaegal would be most vulnerable on the ground as Jon mounted.

“Viserion! Stop them!” she shouted in Valyrian.

Blood pounded in her ears, fear and rage coursing through her veins. A cruel smile sat stamped on the pretender’s face. Daenerys had felt such passionate hatred and helplessness before, beneath Viserys’s thumb, beneath Drogo’s cruelty. No! No, she would not allow it again!      

“ _Dracarys_!”

Drogon’s fire flew in an arch, black and seething. Three men leapt in the way, blocking Drogon’s fire with their bodies. Their corpses fell in charred heaps, armor welded to red, weeping flesh. Gods! What oaths had he extracted from them to sacrifice their lives for his? The pretender’s white charger bolted, fleeing south toward the safety of his gathered war machines. Drogon cut off the stream of fire to utter a harsh roar, thwarted from the kill he craved.

Daenerys leaned forward in the saddle, intent on having Drogon tear him limb from limb. A thin sound shivered through her, too high-pitched for a roar. A warbling shriek, borne of fear. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She twisted around in the saddle. Horror struck her heart like a knife of ice.

“ _Viserion_!”

The ballistae swiveled upward, the bolt flew. Viserion strained higher in the air, uttering that frightened shriek that shattered her heart into tiny pieces. The bolt flew wide, but with barely a pause, another chased him, and another! How was that _possible_?

A flutter of movement at the tail of her eye. Rhaegal! Daenerys kneaded the striving muscles between Drogon’s wings. Faster! _Faster_! Jon, Jon—where was Jon? Daenerys clenched her eyes shut, surging through their bond. Viserion’s fear washed over her, a torrent, a river of it. She surged toward him, swimming up through the current, striving for a calm she didn’t feel. Drogon and Rhaegal hovered close, so close the edges of their thoughts seemed to tangle. A net, a rope binding them tight together.

Pain severed any other thought. A sharp cold bolt in her center.

Painpainhurtohgodsithurt!

Daenerys clutched her chest to stem the hot flow of blood pouring out. All her fingers found was cold, smooth steel. What--? The sound that left her didn’t sound human. The keen of a dying soul.

With a sucking breath, she opened her eyes in time to see Rhaegal falling from the sky. Frozen in place, she watched, her throat raw and burning. Blood fell in a crimson torrent from the wound in his chest, along with a burst of green fire. Rhaegal’s cry was full of pain as he crashed into the ground. How? What had--? Jon? Where was Jon? Rhaegal’s saddle was empty.

Every detail was sharp as cut glass.

The pattern of snow hissing on his scales.

One wing bent at a painful angle beneath him.

The piteous edge to his growls.

The cruel iron spike thrust into his chest, right at the wing juncture.     

_Oh gods._

Drogon landed with a teeth-jarring thud. Her ice-cold hands fumbled with the leg straps. Soon she was free, staggering to Rhaegal. The ground boiled with his blood, a gauzy cocoon of steam rising up. Words bubbled from her lips like blood’s flood from his great heart. Words of love, of solace, when there was none. The world was bitter and cruel, eager to rend and shatter and defile. Daenerys cradled his horned head, rocking gently, staring deep into pain-fogged bronze of his eye. Gods, he was so _cold_. The searing heat of him ebbed to a candle’s flame.

“Rhaegal, oh Rhaegal my love. Please . . . _please_ ,” she said thickly, pressing her forehead to his snout. She didn’t know what she pled for or to whom, but plead she did. To any god who would listen. _Please, not my baby, spare my child . . ._   Through their bond, he clung to her as he had as a hatchling, trusting her to save him from pain and fear. Daenerys cradled him in that place, trying to pull him into her and absorb the blow herself. Nonononono he was slipping!

“Rhaegal?” she said, swiping a warm, ticklish sensation from her face. She gritted her teeth through the tearing pain, trying to stitch together the holes torn in his soul. The abyss loomed, ever patient. Blood pattered on his snout. Was there another wound--? Rhaegal uttered a soft, sad whine, gently nudging her chest.       

“Gods. _Rhaegal_ ,” Jon’s voice behind her was soft, broken into pieces as she was. Jon was bloodied, limping, but whole. There was no room inside her for relief at that fact. Her child was dying. Rhaegal lifted his head to nudge Jon’s chest, his growl soft and sweet.

“Rhaegal, no!” Daenerys said, clinging to him in body and mind. She felt the exact moment his heart stopped. The bronze-hued beauty and heat of him quenched into ash and darkness. Bound as close to him as she was, the death was hers too. Not a soft embrace of cold and silence, but a sharp, soul-deep _rending_. Pain bloomed and burned, hotter than dragonfire. She was drowning, drowning in an ocean of pain and grief. She screamed, clawing at the pain in her head.

Then, blessedly, darkness rose up to meet her.

 

~

 

“Dany? Dany? Oh gods, Dany, _please_ ,” Jon said, swiping tears from his face as he groped for a pulse at his wife’s throat. Gods, that _scream_ as Rhaegal died. He would remember that sound for the rest of his life. Her face was a mess. Blood trickled from her nose, even from her eyes, mingled with tears wetting her face. Jon cradled in her in the crook of his arm, bleating her name.

_There_. Thank the gods, her heart still beat. Jon mopped her face as best he could.

He sat in the snow, the cold seeping through the seat of his trousers, frozen and stupid. Jon’s skin was slicked with cold sweat, his breath coming in shuddering, sobbing gulps. Rhaegal was dead. He died protecting Jon, protecting Viserion.

“What do I do? What do I . . .” Jon said, looking for help, for answers.

Drogon and Viserion were there, radiating heat and strength in the dying sunlight. Drogon’s low growl rattled in his chest. He couldn’t look at Rhaegal’s body, already so cold. A howl rose in his throat, a wolf’s keen mourning. He swallowed it, choked down the burning. Viserion’s yellow-gold eye met his. Dimly, Jon felt the press of the dragon’s mind. His was different than the mellow bronze of Rhaegal’s. Viserion was sharper, swifter, a gust of warm wind.   

“They’ll die for this,” Jon swore. Dragons understood revenge.

There was no strategy, no thought. Jon existed in a deeper wild place. Targaryen blood ran as hot as wolf’s blood, and he felt ablaze with it. With a harsh cry, he heaved Daenerys’ limp body onto Drogon’s back. Tenderly, he tightened the legs straps, guided her lie with her head on Drogon’s shoulder. His shield strap lashed her torso to Drogon’s spikes. As safe as he could make her. Jon knelt at Rhaegal’s head, pressing a hand to his snout.

“I’m sorry, my friend. I wish we could have . . .” his voice broke, “. . . could have had more time. I will avenge you, I promise.” On impulse, he dragged a finger in Rhaegal’s blood, painting a stripe across his forehead. The blood held a vestige of his heart’s heat, warm on his skin. Jon would carry his warmth close.

Jon turned to Viserion, offering an upturned hand.

“I know we haven’t time to--”

Viserion interrupted him by lifting his head, impatient and haughty. No saddle, but there was no time to linger. Jon climbed up Viserion’s gold spikes to sit on the hot cream-colored scales.

“ _Sōves!”_ Jon shouted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.


	40. Part XL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle's rage

“Thank the gods. We have a real chance now!” Jon said, with a fierce snarl. He watched avidly as the Dothraki smashed into the pretender’s armies. Like a spearpoint, the larger Dothraki force drove a wedge deep into the enemy line. Their _arakhs_ gleamed, their braids sailed in the wind, he could hear the echo of their shrill battle cries. Horses plunged and bolted beneath their masters’ spurs in their haste to turn and run. Blood and death was all the cowards deserved!

The wind gusted, and for a moment Jon’s belly quavered at the ground so far below. The only thing keeping him aloft was the grip of his legs and Viserion’s effort. Jon shook it off, leaning forward to guide Viserion into a shallow dive.

First, he must find a maester for Daenerys. A close second was to find Ser Barristan and the small council to establish a battle plan. So far, he’d been able to guide the dragon by movements and commands alone. Viserion’s mind shone bright as a beam of sunlight, but to bridge the chasm between their minds would take time.

The gleam of black and gold armor caught his eye at the head of a Westerosi column beneath the snap of Daenerys’ red dragon banner. Viserion roared, his higher in pitch than Drogon’s and steady in timbre. Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah pulled up, their horses shying away from the dragon. Tyrion was there too, his Hand’s badge gleaming gold on his breastplate. The bloodriders and Unsullied of the small council—save for Grey Worm—were busy leading their men. Jon scanned the group, seeing blowing mounts, grimy armor, and bloodied weapons. They’d faced some hard fighting on their way.

Jon twisted to look. Drogon flew in wide circles overhead. Gods, how was he going to get Drogon to land and let the maesters tend Daenerys? Rhaegal and Viserion he’d felt on a rudimentary level, but he’d never even attempted to reach for Drogon. The big black dragon was so quintessentially Daenerys’ mount. Jon met those amber-red eyes and _stretched_ . . . Drogon shook his horned head and roared. Reeling as if from a slap, pain throbbed behind his eyes. A cold needle jabbed through his heart. Daenerys needed _help_.  

“Drogon, please! Land so they can--” Drogon roared again, climbing in the sky with powerful sweeps of his wings.

“Ser Snow!”

Jon watched the black dragon soar and felt his heart sink. The feeling of powerlessness crept up his throat, a clawing, choking feeling. What kind of man was he if he couldn’t protect his wife and unborn child?

“What delayed you, Ser Barristan?” Jon asked.

“The pretender sent the full complement of the Second Sons to ambush us on the goldroad east of Deep Den. It took days of hard fighting before we won through,” Ser Jorah said.

“Ser Snow! Where is Her Grace?” Ser Barristan said, his voice sharp with worry. Viserion righted himself in the air with a shake. Jon cursed, clenching his thighs tight as Viserion hovered over the ground.

“There is much to say, Ser. Robb’s men were attacked overnight, and have been hard pressed since. Rhaegal . . .” damn it all, his voice broke around the name, “was slain by the pretender’s ballistae. The queen fainted. She is on Drogon.” All color drained from Ser Barristan’s face.

 “I see,” Ser Barristan said, choked. It was anathema to them that the dragons could fall. If asked even an hour ago, Jon would have thought the same. Those words and the weight of them rippled through the gathered men. A dragon now lay dead.

After a moment, Tyrion cleared his throat.

“Did you find what you sought on the Isle of Faces?” Tyrion asked. Jon found a thin, embittered smile, meeting Tyrion’s sharp green gaze. It might have been in his mind, but Jon felt an implied rebuke at leaving Robb’s forces to fly north.

“We did. The seer the Three-Eyed Raven told me the truth: I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. The queen and I were then wed before the heart tree.” If his first words had shocked them, those sent them reeling. Tyrion goggled, his eyes nearly popping from his skull. Jon took savage pleasure in the fact.

“I’ll concentrate the dragons’ fire on the siege weapons and the periphery—herd them in.”

“Very well, Se—Your Grace. We will concentrate on the center,” Tyrion said, recovering well. Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah echoed Tyrion, each would command a flank while Grey Worm commanded the van.

“If possible, capture the pretender alive. I would take pleasure in showing him the queen’s justice,” Jon said.

“As you say, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said.

Jon urged Viserion higher in the sky. High overhead Drogon flew; he looked like a black speck above them. Jon clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. In the wake of Rhaegal’s death, Drogon was doing what he thought would keep Daenerys safe. _Wake up, my love. We need you._ Viserion craned his gleaming white head to look at him in askance. Jon patted Viserion’s shoulder.   

The field below was utter chaos. The driving Dothraki charge stalled, pressed by hard fighting. Try as he might, Jon couldn’t discern friend from foe amongst the clashing steel and fray of horses at this distance. The elephants that remained had regrouped into ragged formation. As he watched, Dothraki riders surrounded the beasts with spears and _arakhs_ , shouting and lashing their whips. Herdsmen to a man, they could neutralize the elephants.

Jon urged Viserion east toward the city. He sent up a passionate prayer that Asha and her ironborn and the Blackfish were worth their salt, that Umber and Royce could hold the walls. Even with reinforcements, if the Lannisters reentered the fray, it could spell the end of their narrow advantage.

In that glance toward the city, he saw the forlorn heap of Rhaegal’s body.

It touched that burning red thing smoldering in his belly, burning away the detritus of doubt and fear. The red rage clawed up his innards, filling his chest, his throat, burning until he felt like a dragon himself. Dragons were a miracle reborn into the world. Fire made flesh. Fire wasn’t only destruction, but life and warmth. Would any man alive spite the fire that warmed him in the winter, or the very sun in the sky?

And Daenerys, his beautiful wife.

She suffered so much, lost every single member of her family save himself, endured unspeakable abuse almost every day of her life. And still, _still_ she had a kind and gentle heart and wished to help those less fortunate. She was as much a miracle as her children. A miracle he would protect to his last breath.

Jon’s hands clenched on his knees. He wanted to slaughter the lot of them, he wanted to hunt down the pretender like a rabid dog and kill him as slowly as he could manage. It was foreign hunger, but one he still relished. He didn’t recognize himself. Jon didn’t like killing, though he was a talented warrior. Jon Snow did not, but Jaehaerys Targaryen? Jaehaerys savored the thought. _Fire and Blood._

Viserion was there in his mind, hot and thrumming like the crackle of a bonfire. He understood the tenor of his thoughts and Jon felt a reflection of accord. Together he and Viserion would make them pay and pay. Jon gave himself to the snarling red thing and let out a sharp scream, echoed by Viserion’s roar.

“ _Dracarys_!” Jon shouted, his voice cracking on the word.

White fire burst from Viserion’s maw, as clean and pure as snow. Men and horses cried out in pain, in terror. There was catharsis in seeing them fall to ash, in seeing more reel and bat at the flames that ate at them, but Jon yearned to have them close. He wanted them close enough to feel Longclaw’s bite. He wanted blood hot and slick on his hands. Jon and Viserion moved as one, sweeping over the field like vengeful gods. Horses plunged and crashed together as fire raked the field. Men shouted and cursed in half a dozen tongues.

The humped shapes of ballistae crouched near King’s Landing.

“Come! We’ll destroy them! The pretender is probably burrowing like a rat beneath them!” Jon said, leaning right on Viserion’s back. The cream dragon shrieked, his frilled spikes shivering.

Viserion’s movements were crisper than Rhaegal’s and gods, was he _fast_. Jon clenched his legs tight to Viserion’s back, wind whistling in his ears. His hair fell loose from its tie, the ends stinging his face. Quick as thought, they traversed the field. The pretender’s men had tried to save their equipment by positioning them in clusters scattered over a league or so of terrain. Viserion was too swift for them. On his command, Viserion swept the wooden ballistae with fire, incinerating or disabling each. A fierce joy surged through Jon at the sight. The men manning them met a similar fate. Some held their hands up in a plea for mercy. Viserion snapped one in two with a font of blood. Let them beg. Let them weep for mercy. Now—with Rhaegal’s body growing cold on the ground—they would find none.

The iron ballistae were another matter. Jon pressed down hard with his palm between Viserion’s shoulders, signaling him to land. Viserion shook his horned head in irritation.

“Trust me. Land!” Jon said, groping for the Valyrian word when the dragon hesitated. The words darted away from him, slippery and elusive on his tongue.

Viserion breathed a puff of hot smoke, angling sharply to the ground. Jon cursed. The dragon crashed to the ground. Blood filled his mouth from a bitten tongue. Viserion roared, the sound ringing in his ears. Jon’s heart pounded loud. Jon slid down the side of Viserion’s neck, yanking Longclaw free from its sheath. Viserion struck out with his wings and tail, white fire surging in an arc around the ballistae.

“Die, demonspawn!” a sellsword shouted, twisting the ballista around toward Viserion. With a raw cry, Jon swung Longclaw. The sellsword’s head fell with a red-black spurt of blood. Another fumbled with his crossbow. Jon closed the distance between them in three strides.

“No, wait--” Jon thrust Longclaw through his throat, his words lost in a wet gargle. The third raised a mace. Jon sliced through the wooden haft, the heavy iron head fell and crushed the sellsword’s foot. As he screamed, Jon dispatched him with a backhanded blow across the chest. Jon hurried, hacking at the iron ballistae’s strings with Longclaw. His hand shook as he disabled the firing levers. A cadre of sellswords galloped up, screaming. Flicking the blood from Longclaw, Jon scurried back to Viserion. Gods, he gleamed like burnished gold in the dying sunlight, sleek and muscular and deadly. The dragon’s yellow-gold eye tracked him, he flattened his neck so Jon could climb to his back. Jon took his seat.

“ _Dracarys_!” Jon snarled. Viserion jumped into the air in one smooth, clean leap, his white fire engulfing the attacking front. A gleam of white on the edges of his vision. Jon shifted, finding a white charger tearing south with a small knot of men flanking him. _The pretender._ Jon pushed the thought with all his might toward Viserion, along with a feeling of hunger, almost lust for revenge. The dragon’s wings cut through the thin curtain of smoke, like a sword of ice. His roar rose in the air, sharp with hunger and rage. With fierce grin, Jon urged Viserion south, toward the fleeing pretender. 

~

 

Pain welcomed her like an old friend as she woke. It pounded in her skull like the crash of relentless surf, surging, eddying waves of hot pain. Every beat of her heart felt labored, each breath fought for. Panic clawed at her, she was trapped in the grey, in the cold. Daenerys cracked open her eyes, finding Drogon’s gleaming, black scales. Wind whistled in her ears, the sun shone golden, Drogon’s powerful body strove beneath her. Overwhelmed, she let her eyes slipped closed. She was grateful for the warmth of Drogon’s scales keeping the hungry cold at bay.

Drogon hovered in the ether, waiting for her to wake. Daenerys feebly crawled toward him. He curled around her, radiating protection. The heat of him thawed her frozen limbs. A rush of emotion flooded her along with a gush of images. Rhaegal falling, rage, Jon, Rhaegal dying, pain, pain, pain, her scream, pain, Jon laying a hand on Rhaegal’s snout, Jon easing her limp body into the saddle, grief stamped on his face. Daenerys let it wash over her, gathering the scattered pieces of her soul. Fresh tears welled at the thought of Jon, her love, her husband. A part of her was grateful her bond with the dragons had been frayed. Had it been whole when Rhaegal died, it might have killed her too. As it was, she only felt half-dead. Daenerys laid a hand on her belly. _Please be well little one. Please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._  

Daenerys willed life into sluggish body, ducking beneath the leather strap Jon tied to Drogon’s horns. With a wheeze, she was upright in the saddle. Every joint and muscle ached, pain was a hot twist of the vise around her head. Rummaging through the satchel, she wet her hands with water from the skin and scrubbed the crust of blood from her face before draining the last of its contents. It felt wonderful on her cracked lips and raw, burning throat. Hunger gnawed at her innards, she chewed on the crust of bread from the satchel. Each bite helped ward off the floating, empty grey that hovered around her.  

The battlefield lay below them, beneath straggling wisps of cloud. Smoke rose in thick black tendrils, frayed by the wind. The sunlight deepened into a deeper rosy gold of late afternoon. She looked overhead. Here the sky was the deep blue of a sapphire’s heart. Daenerys blinked, her breath gusting in white vapor. _So high . . ._ Drogon craned his head to look at her, uttering his usual clicking sound.

“I’m all right, my love. Thank you,” she whispered, rubbing his wing muscle.

“Lower, Drogon. We must help Viserion.”

Drogon roared, red rage surging through their bond. The fire touched the smoldering embers in her heart and Daenerys sucked in a deep breath. Revitalized, she settled in the saddle, tightening the leg straps and winding Jon’s leather strap around her hands. The ragged bleeding edges of the wound inside her would be there waiting once the battle was done. Drogon tucked his wings close to his body, arrowing down toward the faraway battlefield. The wind rattled in her helm, her belly flipped at the sharp drop.

Below, there was the bone-white gleam of Viserion. His sharp roar filled the air. Daenerys tucked close to Drogon’s scales, the wind whipping tears from the corners of her eyes. There were no clear targets in the scrum of men below. She leaned back in the saddle, leveling Drogon into a smoother, even sweep. The ground was white blur beneath them, the wind keening in her ears.

The shrill Dothraki war cries made her heart flip in her chest. At last! Her men had arrived! Now the battle could continue in earnest. As she watched, knots of men heeled their horses south. Too far for their remaining catapults to provide support and their lines shattered by the driving force of the Dothraki, the sellswords fighting for Aegon Blackfyre were losing. Her men would control the field in an hour’s time.

“The Blackfyre! Where is he?” Daenerys said, scanning the field for a white charger and the shine of night-black plate.

Smoking ballistae clustered near the western wall of King’s Landing near the roseroad. Viserion had succeeded in shattering some and burning the rest, but Daenerys hung back, wary of the abomination that had killed Rhaegal. A hot knot rose in her throat, she choked it down. She slammed a fist on her plated thigh, so hard it ached.

“That’s why the Iron Bank backed the pretender. He intended to kill my children from the start with that _thing_.” Why hadn’t she considered it sooner? If she had, Rhaegal might still live! Drogon caught the tenor of her thoughts and released a gout of fire in front of them, black and blisteringly hot. The heat of his flames flew back at her, baptizing her. It felt anchoring, and she locked away those thoughts to feed upon later.

“Yes, my love. He will pay,” she said.

Viserion’s sleek form darted south in pursuit of a fleeing knot of men. Another formation bearing her black banner galloped after them—the Queensguard. White fire raked across the field, cutting off a route of escape. Daenerys urged Drogon to encircle the men from the other side. _Yes, yes!_ They were caught!

As they flew closer, Daenerys at last saw the dark figure on Viserion’s back—Jon! His black hair flew wild around his face. A streak of red was painted across his forehead. His dark eyes swallowed her whole.

“Are you all right?” Jon shouted, his voice a faint thread of sound over the dragons’ wingbeats. Despite the tension and worry, Daenerys couldn’t but admire his steady seat, his ease with Viserion.

“Fine! I want them alive!” she shouted. _Be safe, I love you,_ she wanted to add.

Jon nodded, murmuring a command to Viserion. The dragon circled the group, wind from his wings and a hint fire making their horses stumble. Daenerys urged Drogon to land, unbuckling the leg straps. Her men pulled up on blowing mounts, Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah and several Dothraki. Silhouetted by golden sunlight, their shadows loomed large and distorted across glittering snow. Daenerys picked her way down Drogon’s shoulder, the snow melting to slush beneath his heat. Her legs wobbled, but held her.

Through their bond, she urged her children to fly. In the air, they were safe, and could keep any sellswords who sought to approach at bay.  

At swordpoint, the pretender, Jon Connington, and three sellsword captains dismounted. Her small group of Dothraki surrounded them. She squinted into the golden blaze of the afternoon sun, licking wind-chapped lips.

“Your Grace!” Ser Barristan said, “we came as swiftly as we could.” Daenerys’ gaze flickered over him, noting his greyish caste to his face, the pleading look in his eye, his spattered, grimy armor, his mount quivering with exhaustion.  

“You did not fail me, Ser. Thank you,” she said.

“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said, wincing as he dismounted. A prick of concern struck her. He was sore wounded.

“Are you well, Ser?” Daenerys laid a hand on his arm.

“I am now,” he said with a tired smile. Daenerys returned the gesture. _My loyal old bear._

Jon stalked around the gathered men, his movements swift and jerky with agitation.

“Kneel before the queen,” he said, his voice a hoarse and smoky rasp. His dented iron armor bore fresh red spatters, mud and gore peppering his face. The red stripe across his forehead looked to be dried blood. Jon’s expression was thunderous, generous mouth thinned to a grim line. The three sellsword captains knelt, though the griffin and pretender remained defiant.

“I said: _Kneel_!” Jon kicked the pretender hard at the back of the knee, smacking his armored back hard with the flat of Longclaw. Connington made to strike out when Jon struck his helmed head with the pommel of his sword.

“You are beaten. Yield,” Daenerys said quietly.

Connington creaked to his knees. Ser Jorah yanked off his griffin helm. Thinning red hair mellowed to grey, wrinkles seamed a careworn face. Pale blue eyes watched her balefully. Similarly kneeling and exposed, the pretender was a picture of Targaryen beauty. Silver hair in sweaty, disheveled spikes, narrow violet eyes, a thin mouth, and aquiline nose that reminded her of Viserys.

“Misplaced a dragon, my dear aunt?” the pretender said, sneering. The barb struck home and Daenerys hid a flinch, her knuckles white on Dark Sister’s hilt. Jon backhanded him hard. There was a rush of fierce pleasure in seeing him crumple and spit blood into the snow. _Never had a hand raised to him in his life, I imagine._   

“You will die, Blackfyre. As slowly and painfully as I can manage it for what you did to my child.” Daenerys kept her voice a whisper. For several macabre moments, she imagined all the ways she could kill him. Poison, wildfire, drowning. She rounded on Connington.

“And you? What do you have to say, trying to pass off this spiteful changeling as my brother’s son? Rhaegar, who you loved most in this world?” she asked.

“Rhaegar, the fool. He eloped with a northern wolf bitch and died like his mad father. For nothing. What was left for me but exile and despair?” Connington said, spitting on the ground at her feet. Above all, she felt weariness, exhaustion.

“I have a kingdom to conquer. Lock them up. I will deal with them in the morning,” she said.

Ser Jorah moved to haul the pretender up. He moved like a striking viper. A knife gleamed. Then Ser Jorah fell like a stone, a knife buried to the hilt in his eye. Daenerys stared, dumb and uncomprehending. No—How--?

The world was a mess of confused movement and noise. Time seemed to slow. The dragons roared high overhead. Ser Barristan’s sharp shout, though his horse bolted beneath him. Connington rose, a sweep of his leg tripping Jon. The pretender advanced on her. The sunlight caught his sword in a sharp silver gleam. He raised it to strike—Daenerys yanked Dark Sister free from her sheath, moved to block the pretender’s blade. The impact shivered up her arms. The lesser steel shattered into glittering fragments against her Valyrian steel.

There was instant, where she saw his face smooth into a look of dumb surprise. Then he fell, clutching his arm. Jon was there, the pretender’s severed hand at his feet. Behind Jon, Connington’s pale blue eyes stared into nothing, his life’s blood pulsing from his throat. Ser Barristan appeared, his face a grim mask, his sword opening a thin line at the pretender’s chin. A fat drop of blood beaded on his skin. Dark Sister fell from nerveless fingers to lay beside Longclaw in the snow.

Jon’s face filled her vision, his dark eyes wide with concern.

“Dany? Dany? Are you all right?” he asked, his hands on her shoulders.

Faintly, she heard the Dothraki’s jubilant shouts, along with the pealing of bells within the city. King’s Landing was hers. It was over. The horror of the day crashed over her, bludgeoned her. Clutching Jon close, she sank to her knees, weeping great tearing sobs. Relief and anguish both. The battle was over.

 


	41. Part XLI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of the Battle for King's Landing

 Part XLI

 

 

“This way, Ser,” the healer said, ushering him with a gesture into a large warehouse within the walls of King’s Landing.

King’s Landing was theirs. The Lannisters fought on with a condemned man’s desperation, now holding only the Red Keep against Daenerys’ army. The Westerosi and Unsullied from the garrison on Dragonstone—the freshest of them—battered relentlessly at the keep’s gates. It was only a matter of time until they capitulated, or were killed. At the moment, Jon couldn’t say which he preferred.

Jon swung down from Flint, slinging his shield onto his back. Ghost trotted at his heels. The direwolf had run with Daenerys’ men from the Rock to join his brothers on the field. The air reeked old wine and neglect, lit by smoking oil lamps. His gut quivered, roiling inside him like a sack of writhing snakes. The healer led him down a row of cots—little more than a square of canvas between their bodies and the dirty floor. Men wept and swore as the healers tended them. At least half were burned, victims of wildfire. They smelled sickeningly of half-roasted meat.

Robb Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell lay amongst common foot soldiers, his handsome face pale as bone. The only color was the red gash through his right eyebrow and gouging deep into his cheek—barely missing his eye. The gash bristled with a healer’s neat stitches, though thin blood oozed from the edges. Blue-black bruises marred his cheek from temple to nose, and stood out in sharp relief against his pallor. Jon raked his gaze over him. The healers removed his armor and gambeson. His under-tunic was stained with sweat and mud. His left arm was in a sling. The left leg was splinted and wrapped in linen stiffened with starch. 

“Lord Stark?” the healer asked, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. Robb’s dark eyelashes fluttered, blue eyes clouded with pain.

“Jon! Thank the gods!” Robb said, attempting to sit up. He winced, subsiding with a hiss under the healer’s admonishments. Alive. Banged up, but alive. Jon creaked to his knees, taking Robb’s good hand between his. Much like his armor and mail, his joints felt rusted in the damp and cold. Robb’s hand was cool, but his grip firm.

“It’s my fault, Jon. I’m sorry, the men . . .” Robb’s voice trembled a little, “I should have had more scouts posted, I shouldn’t have set camp so close to the city--”

“Peace, Robb. There is no shame in it. We won the day,” Jon said.

“At a high cost,” Robb said, every fiber of his being radiating remorse. There were no words to refute Robb’s, so Jon said nothing. Jon sank back on his heels and swiped a grimy hand over his burning eyes, weary to his marrow. Gods, was it just this morning when he wed Daenerys before the heart tree? It felt as if it belonged in another lifetime. Robb shifted position with a muttered curse. Ghost nosed his cheek. Robb’s expression softened.

“Hello, Ghost,” Robb said, scratching behind the direwolf’s tufted ears.

“Have they given you anything for the pain?”

“I’m all right. The healers are stumbling around like an upset anthill. Are you well?” Robb said with an assessing glance.

“Scrapes and bruises.”

“And Daenerys?” he asked, his voice hoarse. Robb chewed on his lower lip waiting for Jon’s reply. 

A stand beside the cot held a stone water jug and horn cup. Jon poured. Water glugged into the cup, with a faint wafting scent of honey. He remembered the maester saying the sweetness of honey helped revive a weakened body. Jon exhaled a heavy breath through his nostrils.

“As well as can be expected,” Jon said, cupping Robb’s head. The thick, wavy auburn hair damp with sweat. Robb set his lips to the rim, a thin ribbon of water dribbled down his stubbled chin. Robb gulped thirstily, thanking Jon.

“Tell me. The healers won’t say anything,” Robb said softly.

Jon relayed the events of the day, beginning with the Three-Eyed Raven and ending with Ser Jorah’s death at the Blackfyre’s hand. Varied expressions played across Robb’s beaten face. First disbelief, confusion, horror, awe, sorrow. Robb uttered a low whistle.

“Fuck,” he said. In spite of the heaviness in his heart, Jon snorted.

“Well put,” Jon said. Robb sat up, slowly, painfully. His blue eyes flew wide.

“Fuck, Jon! This is . . . I mean, you’re . . . and we’re . . .” Jon nodded. A chorus of sharp cries announced a group of Dothraki riding nearby. Hurried feet pattered on the worn floorboards, along with a hail of greetings.

“Aye, all of that. We’ll talk about all of it. You rest. I need to see to the queen’s men,” he said. Robb blinked and with a wry grin, managed an awkward bow.

“By your leave, Your Grace,” he said. Jon felt a weary smile tug at his lips.   

Outside, Jon hailed Rakharo on his big black stallion. The other Dothraki raised their _arakhs_ in greeting. Rakharo swung down, shrugging his braid over his shoulder. Jon sucked in a breath of icy air, relishing the cold scoring his lungs. The cold helped to keep him wakeful. The exhale bloomed in a gust of thick white vapor.

“Snow of the Wolf Tent! How is the khaleesi?” Rakharo asked.

“She and Ser Barristan are in with the silent sisters. They are with . . . the bodies,” Jon said, motioning to the gatehouse south of where they stood.

The night sky was clear and quiet. So tranquil after all the battle and struggle. The moon rose white and round on the horizon. Jon buried his cold-numbed hands in the warmth of Ghost’s moon-white fur. Faraway, he could hear the mournful echo of Summer’s howl singing to the rising moon. Farther still, he recognized Viserion’s echoing roar. Direwolf and dragon alike plundered the battlefield for their supper. The faint orange gleam beyond the walls announced Dothraki funeral fires.  

Rakharo folded his bare muscular arms over his chest. His usually affable mien looked grim and terrifying obscured by Dothraki mourning paint of soot and horse fat. His eyes were a wet gleam, his face a floating black oval. The paint was solid black on his face and neck, trailing to jagged stripes on his shoulders and upper chest. Rakharo told him the living must disguise themselves from the ghostgrass when riders met the Great Stallion.

“Aggo and Kovarro ride with the Great Stallion tonight. They died with honor, serving their khaleesi,” Rakharo said, though there was the slightest tremor in his voice. Jon swallowed hard. Two of Daenerys’ three bloodriders died in the battle. Rhaegal, Ser Jorah, Aggo, Kovarro, scores of others . . . so much death and loss.

“Aye, but it is little comfort to her today. After everything,” Jon said, with a vague gesture. Rakharo gave a measured nod.

“Though a fierce khal and the Stallion Who Mounts the World, she has a tender heart. It is good,” he said. A moment of silence stretched between them. Jon heaved a sigh, turning to thread a hand in a fistful of Flint’s wiry mane.

“I best ride for the keep. I would have the whole of this wretched city in hand before dawn,” Jon said. Rakharo clapped a heavy hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“Go to your wife, Snow of the Wolf Tent. She needs you. We will win the city for her,” he said. Jon’s throat closed. There would be time later, for words and gifts to express the depth of gratitude for loyal service.

“Very well. If you find Cersei or Jamie Lannister—they have pale hair like Daenerys—get them alive, if you can. They deserve a reckoning for what they’ve done,” Jon said.

“As you say,” Rakharo said. With a barked phrase in Dothraki, Rakharo and three of his men mounted up and clattered down the narrow thoroughfare.

Jon took another steadying breath, then made his way down through throngs of injured men, harried healers, camp women and pages babbling in half a dozen languages. Glimpses found them with their shoulders pushed forward with weariness, reddened eyes filled with a grey relief. Ghost padded at his side.

“Ghost, stay,” he said with a gesture outside the gatehouse door.

The sight of his wife dry-eyed and stone-faced staring at Ser Jorah’s bloodless corpse struck his heart. The cowled and mute silent sisters floated around the room, as graceful and unnerving as grey specters. The room was scarcely warmer than outside, lit by the wavering glow of a brace of candles. Daenerys still wore the same grimy armor she’d worn since leaving Robb’s camp on their flight to the Isle of Faces. How long had it been since she’d worn anything but armor? After today, the days of battle would soon be over. Jon cherished the image of her laughing in the warmth of high summer with flowers in her hair.

“Do you know how many men we lost today?” she said without looking up. The hollowness of her voice turned his stomach. Despite her stillness, her pallor, Jon sensed the tension screaming through her. He yearned to comfort her, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“I don’t know,” he said. Jon choked down the feeling of uselessness. As dumb and useless as a lump of rock.

“Thousands. Westerosi, Dothraki, Unsullied. They died for me.”

“They knew the risk,” Jon said.

“Yes. Each looked to me for help, for protection. And all I brought them was death,” she said. The flat tone was unnerving. Her fire had burned out, leaving a grey husk. Jon clenched his jaw. The rage and dark joy of battle had burned through him, leaving only soul-deep weariness and the taste of grit and smoke in his mouth.

Daenerys dismissed the silent sisters with a gesture. They bowed and took their leave with a whisper of robes. Ser Jorah’s wrinkled face was relaxed in death. The silent sisters had tended the wound that killed him, stitching the eyelid into a neat seam. Aggo and Kovarro lay still in their biers, _arakhs_ folded in cold hands. Death had cut their braids, but they would meet the Great Stallion with their hair unbound and uncut, by Daenerys’ order. Aggo had taken a sellsword arrow after slaying many enemies. Kovarro had been impaled by a scorpion bolt in his attempt to destroy it.   

“It’s not your fault.”

“Who’s fault is it but mine? I am their queen, their khaleesi--” her voice warbled on the word. The sentence hung like a limp piece of string.

“The fault lies with the Blackfyre. With Cersei Lannister. You offered them peace. They knew this was not a war they could win, yet they wanted you to pay for every inch with blood.” A kindling spark of anger burned in his belly at the thought. Spite and avarice, hate and jealousy.

Jon slipped his hand into hers. Her skin was warm, as grimy as his own. Daenerys at last turned to face him, her bloodshot violet eyes met his. In them, he saw the bleakness of her grief and self-blame. Jon’s heart broke. He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Oh my love. You love your men as kin, that makes you a great queen.” With a harsh sigh, Daenerys twined her arms around him, tucking her head beneath his chin. Awkward and uncomfortable since they were both clad in armor, but Jon hugged her fiercely.

“I’m not. I am not worthy of their sacrifice. I’m selfish. All I cared for was that you and my children lived, that I took my revenge on Blackfyre.” Jon pressed a kiss to her hair.

“It is a natural thing. I thought for you. When Rhaegal died, I thought--” his voice broke. He never wanted to feel that way again. Helpless, terrified, in agony.

“Sshh,” Daenerys said, tilting her head up to kiss him. Her soft, lingering kisses were warmth and comfort. Jon bit back a whimper, stroking her face, her wind-snarled braids. His love, his wife, safe and whole in his arms. Through the ash and blood and death, there was still good in the world, pleasure and hope. Jon found himself suddenly, achingly hard.

“Daenerys,” he breathed. Swallowed by her dark, hungry eyes, Jon’s hand shook on her back.

“I need you,” she whispered.

Jon folded her hand in his, dragging her from the gatehouse up the stair. The guardsman’s tower was cold and empty save for a few dried leaves rustling beneath the shuttered window. Jon bolted the door, Daenerys’ mouth soft and pliant on his throat. Their cold hands fumbled with buckles and lacings. Pieces of armor thudded on dusty floorboards. Jon laid their cloaks on the floor, tugging her down. Jon kissed her again, tasting salt. Tears or sweat, he didn’t know. Her hands and broken voice clung and encouraged.

“Jon, Jon my love. Come here. I need you.”

Jon sought her warmth, coaxing her with sweet sipping kisses, with gentle seeking touches to her breasts and cunt. Daenerys arched and gasped, grasping for more. Weariness and grief blurred and blunted the edges. He felt as if swam through misty dreams. The world slid into sharp focus as Jon slid home with a groan, fixated on that hot point of contact. Heat and heaven, peace and home as they moved together in the dark. With a choked cry, she found her release and Jon soon followed. They would defeat their enemies, together. They would stare down the loss, together. They would thrive and rule, together. _Together_.

 

~

 

Daenerys woke from a deep sleep to the mournful song of bells. Jon murmured in his sleep, curled behind her. She scrabbled upright. Where--? Moonlight still shone through the shutters, cold and quiet breathing deep around them. The guardhouse. They hadn’t slept long. There was still work to be done. Jon’s warm hand cupped her cheek, guiding her to a gentle, lingering kiss. Pleasure was a soft glow in her belly. Daenerys nuzzled his nose with her own. How had she survived without him?

They rose and helped each other arm in silence. Daenerys belted Dark Sister. The weight of it made her feel strong and capable. Absently, she patted her wild hair. No help for it. No time to even splash her face with water. Every muscle and joint ached. Her feet felt like stiff wooden blocks. Hand in hand, they clattered down the steep stairs and out of the guardhouse. Ghost approached, his tail wagging.

“Hello, my friend,” Daenerys said, petting his massive head. The cold gust of wind dusted out the cobwebs in her sleep-fogged mind. Ser Barristan stood in his black armor, holding the reins to Flint and Daenerys’ silver. His white hair shone silver in the moonlight.

“Your Graces, the men have won through and stormed the keep. Come!” he said, swinging up on his own mount. Daenerys mounted and gathered her reins. A gentle touch of heel urged her silver ahead. Jon, Ser Barristan and several men-at-arms followed after, bearing her dragon banner. Daenerys relaxed into an easy posting as her silver trotted. She’d forgotten her gloves. The cold sank its teeth into her exposed hands and face, making the bones ache and her lips numb. Faraway, she heard the deep bellow of Drogon. Nearby, if she needed him.

“The smallfolk have been treated well, as I asked?” Daenerys said, her breath gusting in white vapor. Her eye wandered over the dark looming buildings crouched along the street. Every shutter was locked tight, loose belongings scattered in the street. A child’s smock was wedged in a closed doorjamb. The warm glow of candlelight seeped through the occasional shutter. Most stood dark. In the distance, smoke rose in thin white plumes. Her silver’s hooves clattered on the cobbles.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said, “The Dothraki and Unsullied both were half-mad with rage upon seeing Rhaegal, but none of the people of King’s Landing have suffered, save those who were fool enough to raise arms against them.”

“The innocents?”

“Instructed to stay in their homes, as ordered.”

“The wildfire?” Jon asked.

“Dealt with. Lord Tyrion said it must be smothered with sand.”

“How extensive is the damage?” she asked, glancing at Ser Barristan’s strong profile. His wince was answer enough.

“Suffice it to say, there is much rebuilding to be done,” he said.

They wove through a warren of twisting streets, at last climbing the wide, wealthy thoroughfare leading up Aegon’s Hill to the Red Keep. Unsullied stood at attention, lining the street.  As she passed, each saluted with a clap of their spear against their shield rim. Westerosi men shouted her house words. Through the scrum, she glimpsed the salt-spattered leathers of an ironborn, or a Dothraki’s swinging braid. Men darted hither and yon, carrying weapons, tossing booty from the upper floors. Gold and silver coins fell like tinkling rain from between the Keep’s crenellations.

“Ser Barristan, stop the looting. Now.” Daenerys hissed.

“As you say,” Ser Barristan said, swinging down and bellowing out orders. Men craved reward after such long, bloody work. Reward there would be, but doled out in her own time and by merit.   

The dead, friend and enemy alike lay in bloody repose in the gutter. Blood trickled between the cobbles, a faint rotted odor in the air. Triumphant Dothraki cries sliced through the dull roar of gathered voices. There was a dull pang beneath her breastbone at the thought of Kovarro and Aggo, and hundreds of others. Kin to her in a way Viserys had never been. Jon caught her gaze, his sable eyes warm and steady. Daenerys released a pent up breath. His strength and understanding soothed her. 

“Khaleesi!” Rakharo said, his black mourning paint marred here and there with smears of blood.

“Blood of my blood, it does my heart good to see you well,” she said in Dothraki. Rakharo’s white teeth gleamed against the black as he smiled.

“I bring you gifts,” he said, brandishing a severed head, blood dribbling from the neck. Daenerys did not recognize the seamed face, frozen in a rictus of horror.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“It is Qyburn, my sweet sister’s Hand,” Tyrion said, urging his bay courser even with Daenerys’ stirrup. His armor bore the signs of recent wear, the gold Hand’s badge smeared with mud. Dark circles hung beneath his sharp green eyes.

“Are you well, Your Grace?” he asked, in a lower tone.

“Better now that the war is nearly over,” she said with a shrug. Rakharo tossed the head aside with a careless gesture.

“The worm was cowering outside the holdfast. I relieved him of his fear.”

“He outlived his usefulness. Not to mention his machinations failed miserably,” Tyrion said. Daenerys looked on the mangled features with something like pity. If they had only surrendered, then such bloodshed would have been unnecessary.

“There is one thorn, khaleesi,” Rakharo said, pointing within the keep’s reddish walls.

Daenerys urged her silver after the muscular rump of Rakharo’s black. A Lannister banner hung, a mocking sway of red and gold. Daenerys yanked it down to be trampled. Within the bailey was a scrum of men who staggered back at the sight of her behind the red dragon of her house. Daenerys dismounted, striding with Jon and Rakharo up the curved stair. Thin ribbons of blood spattered the walls, the air smelled acrid and burnt. As they walked, Daenerys admired the grace clean stonework and masonry, the faded frescos painted on the walls. The Red Keep of King’s Landing, seat of the Targaryen dynasty.

Ahead, Unsullied formed an impenetrable barrier of black armor and bloodied spears. Torches and oil lamps burned, offering light and eye-stinging smoke. In the corridor stood a giant of a man, gleaming in a Kingsguard’s white. Milky-blue eyes peered from a closed helm, his brutish hands a swollen, sickly purple.

“Gregor Clegane. The Mountain,” Tyrion said.

“Cersei’s blood-hungry lapdog,” Daenerys said, her lip curling in a derisive sneer.

“Many warriors face him, wound him. But he will not fall,” Rakharo said. Her bloodrider spoke true: she saw spear hafts broken in the monster’s chest and legs, arrows bristled on his back. Any mortal man would be long dead. Her gaze fell to the ground, finding body parts strewn about. _He_ tore _them with his bare hands._

“This is Qyburn’s doing,” Tyrion said.

“It is an evil thing,” Rakharo said, spitting on the ground in the Mountain’s direction.

“I will finish this,” Daenerys said. She spun on her heel, striding out into the bailey.

“ _Drogon_!” she shouted. His roar filled the air with its music. What was a mere man against a dragon’s splendor? The Mountain, Cersei, Jamie Lannister, all were rats and vermin compared to her children. Daenerys’ men hurriedly retreated from the hall, flooding the bailey. Hulking and stupid, the Mountain shambled after them, swinging his bloodied greatsword. Drogon landed with a crash on the rampart, gleaming and mighty in the soft moonlight. In his mind, she felt the pulse of his hunger.

“ _Dracarys_ ,” she said, pointing at the former knight. Drogon arched his neck above Clegane.

Black fire burst out, molten and glorious. Daenerys watched through the seething screen of fire. The cape and leathers burned to ash. Those milky eyes melted down his face in jellied tears, his exposed skin curling into blackened parchment. The white armor glowed throbbing orange, steam and smoke poured from where the plates met along with the reek of fetid meat. He did not scream as his body roasted, he swung the sword until his hand was only blackened bones. At last— _at last!_ —he fell. A skeleton in molten armor. Daenerys stopped the gout of fire with a gesture. Drogon lowered his head even with her, butting her chest gently. Daenerys scratched the loose scale under his jaw. She glanced at the gathered assemblage of her men, frozen in stunned silence. Jon gave her a small nod of approval. Daenerys found a thin smile.

“Let us finish this.”

When Cersei and Jamie Lannister were flung at her feet, Daenerys felt . . . indifferent. Cersei, a beautiful woman with wide, tilted green eyes, a short cap of blond hair, crowned with a tiara of twisted white gold, looked gaunt and fragile in the milky moonlight. Jamie, his face a strong, masculine echo of Cersei’s, looked lost, almost sorrowful. Here sat her two most entrenched and bitter enemies, and she felt only a faint tinge of relief to at last be done with it. She stood with Jon at her right hand, Tyrion at her left. Behind her stood her army and crouched above was Drogon.

“You chose violence. And violence is what I brought you,” Daenerys said. Cersei clutched the silken drape of her black gown with considerable dignity.

“Kill us, then,” she sneered, green eyes narrow slits of hate. Daenerys tightened her grip on Dark Sister’s hilt.

“You do not make commands here. I will do with you what I choose.”

“They deserve death,” Ser Barristan said.

“Certainly,” she said, nodding.

From the tail of her eye, Tyrion looked sick. Beads of sweat stood on his brow, his ringed hand shook at his side. As venomous as their enmity had been, Cersei was still his sister. And Jamie . . . Jamie had been his only friend for most of his life. Daenerys laid a hand on his shoulder. His green eyes met hers, brimming with conflict. There were no words. Daenerys could not spare them, not even if her Hand pled for their lives. Too many had died to earn this opportunity. The faintest pressure of her fingers gave him leave to go. Tyrion shared one last glance with Jamie, heavy with significance, before he waddled away.

“What say you, my lord husband?” Daenerys asked, turning to Jon. His handsome face was set in a ferocious scowl, Rhaegal’s blood painted on his forehead.

“It is your choice,” Jon said, “though death by fire seems appropriate.” Fierce and beautiful, her love, a Targaryen to his marrow. _A Stark as well. It is an honorable end he offers, and relatively painless._ Daenerys smirked.

“‘Death by fire,’ I like that phrase. Make it so. Lash Cersei and the pretender to Rhaegal’s pyre.”

“And Ser Jamie?” Ser Barristan asked. Daenerys met Jamie Lannister’s eye. There was pride there, and conflict. From what Tyrion said, the choices he made were for love of Cersei, and a knight’s honor. Still, the balance of his deeds was weighed true.

“He is an anointed knight, formerly Kingsguard. Behead him.”

Unsullied dragged them away, Cersei hissing and spitting like a wildcat. Jamie followed, his steps leaden, tears streaming silently down his face. Daenerys watched them go. Any sense of satisfaction, of accomplishment, was blunted by sorrow, weariness. She exhaled a deep breath.

A clatter of movement caught the tail of her eye. Her men tightened into formation around her, Jon first with Longclaw in hand. Daenerys squeezed Dark Sister’s hilt. A single man riding alone, a white flag tied to the tip of his spear. She recognized him as he swung down.

“Storm-Son!” she said, shouldering her way through the throng to meet him, Jon at her heels.

From Tyrion’s report, Storm-Son had been left to command the reserve garrison at Casterly Rock.

“Storm-Son, what are you doing here?” she asked. He staggered toward her, grey-faced. His mount collapsed in a lathered heap, dead from exhaustion. A chill shivered through her. What would urge him to such lengths to reach her? Panting, Storm-Son sank to his knees, offering the bundle he carried with reverent hands.

“Men search the red woman’s chambers. Unsullied find this. A gift for the queen.”

Daenerys flicked open the satchel, peering through the nest of soft linen. Is that . . .? Her hands trembled. Cupping with warm, scaled weight between her hands.

An egg.

_A dragon egg_. Tears overflowed from unblinking eyes. Gods, was this real?

“Yes, it’s real. I see it too,” Jon breathed in her ear, quivering with emotion. Daenerys choked out a sound, half laugh, half sob. She hadn’t realized she had spoken that thought aloud. She cradled the weight of it in her arms, stroking the scaled, pearly surface. So beautiful. The deep blue color of an evening sky, shot through with bronze streaks.

“Another beginning,” she whispered.     


	42. Part XLII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coronation Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were a couple loose ends I could tie up in another part, but I decided to end it with their coronation. Maybe later on I can add drabbles and prompt scenes, but this seems like a good place to end it. This fic has been a blast to write and thank you so much for your comments and support. Enjoy, my lovelies!

Part XLII

 

 

“I shall see you soon, my love. I wouldn’t want to curse the coronation with my masculine presence,” Jon said with a chuckle. His breath fluttered warm against her face, as warm and sweet as his parting kiss.

The day of their coronation dawned under the enameled blue of a cloudless sky. Golden sunlight crept across the tiles and caught the gauzy white canopy overhead, creating a soft halo of honeyed light.

Daenerys floundered from silken sheets and the soft weight of the featherbed to stretch. The air still held the cold bite of winter, cool and sweet against her naked skin, but the sun lingered longer each day. A pleasant lassitude filled her, both from a long night’s sleep and Jon’s loving. He delighted in the changes pregnancy had wrought and spent considerable time showing her so. It gave him a certain piquant delight to mar her skin with love bites before their coronation.

A soft knock interrupted her reverie. Daenerys swathed herself in the drape of deep purple wool dressing gown, the sash barely long enough to knot around the swell of her belly. She was approaching her time, by the maester’s reckoning, due to deliver with the next month or so. She cupped her belly, feeling the lazy stirrings of the occupant within. There was still such trepidation, such awe and wonder.

Daenerys flicked open the lock. The door creaked open to admit Missandei and her ladies.

“Happy coronation day, Your Grace,” Missandei said, her wild hair bound in a silver net at her nape.

“Thank you, my friend,” Daenerys said, embracing her. Her smile felt relaxed and easy in a way she hadn’t felt in months, since before . . . she shied away from the painful memory. Not today. Today was for new beginnings. Joy. Renewal. Springtime.

“Come, there is much to be done. I wish to shine brighter than the sun today,” Daenerys said. She walked barefoot amongst the flock of her women, liking the image of a penitent it invoked. She had begun her journey to the throne with nothing, after all.

Missandei led the way to the bathhouse, where the Stark women waited. Her languor evaporated in irritation. The youngest Stark looked fearsome in her Queensguard armor. Not in Westerosi plate, it hampered her speed. Instead Arya bowed to Daenerys’ insistence of armor with a simple hauberk of Valyrian steel rings, muted by a velvet surcoat in subdued colors. She stood flipping her Valyrian dagger in deceptively lazy flicks.

“Ladies Stark, you needn’t wait upon me. This a day of celebration--”

“We are cousins-by-law, Your Grace. It is our honor to attend you today,” Sansa said with a broad smile. There was genuine warmth in that smile, Daenerys thought, and she was grateful for it. There was a part of her that craved female companionship, a longing she saw reflected in Sansa. Daenerys’ gaze flickered to Lady Stark, finding a similarly relaxed mien. Knowing what she did about Jon’s treatment under the other woman’s care, Daenerys would never be bosom companions with Catelyn Stark. But bonds of family and alliance meant they would continue to cross paths. Daenerys held her gaze for a long, silent moment. _I’ve the measure of you, and find you wanting._

“Very well,” she said.

Missandei led the way to a steaming bath. Torches sat in heavy iron sconces, hissing in stream-wreathed air. Daenerys breathed deep, allowing the moist heat to fill her lungs, along with the musk of wet stone and the perfume of rose oil, her favorite. Missandei’s soft hands plucked at the sash of her gown, guiding her up the steps into the bath. The dressing gown pooled on the floor, gooseflesh stippled her skin at the chill.  

 “I ask that you forgive any slights to your sensibilities. My husband is most voracious in his appetites,” she said with a pointed glance at the gathered assembly of women. Love bites peppered her breasts and shoulders. Arya seemed to be fighting a smile. Lady Stark looked as if she’d bitten a lemon. Daenerys waded into the deep pool, biting back a half-pained moan at the intense heat of the water. Sweat broke out in a fine dew on her skin.

With the skill of long practice, Missandei draped the loose drape of her waist-length silver hair over the lip of the bath. A separate jug of hot water dampened her hair. A wet, smacking sound as her hands scooped sweet-smelling soap from a jar and began kneading it into a lather in Daenerys’ hair. Her voice, softly accented and precise, guided the highborn ladies in assisting her. Lady Stark lit a brace of candles, fetching and carrying, Rosalin took her left hand to file and oil her nails. Another of her ladies plied her with bread, soft cheese, dried, sugared plums and watered sweetwine.

“Sansa, please play for me. Anything. Your favorite song,” Daenerys asked with a slit-eyed smile. Sansa nodded, moving to the harp on a stool. The soft strains of her music eased Daenerys deeper into relaxation. A snort of laughter escaped. The song was “Six Maidens in a Pool.”

“How apt,” she drawled with a sly glance at Sansa. The candlelight set Sansa’s auburn hair afire, along with her rosy cheeks.

Daenerys wallowed in the water, feeling much like a pampered whale. The babe stirred, pressing a foot against her belly. Tenderness flooded her and she pressed against the spot, reassuring their child she knew he was there. Tears always hovered close and she allowed several to fall, lost in the steam. Missandei rinsed her hair, then wound it in a towel to dry. Reluctantly, Daenerys stirred herself to wash, scrubbing her skin pink from head to toe.

“Arya,” Daenerys said, summoning her with a lazy gesture.

“Your Grace,” she said, “before you ask, I can’t sing.”

That made the hollow room ring with soft feminine laughter. Despite that, Arya’s smile did not quite reach those long grey eyes. There were shadows in them no light could penetrate, and sometimes the contemplation of them sent a chill through her. Daenerys grasped gently her wrist, feeling wiry strength and energy hum.

“I daren’t ask for a song,” Daenerys said, “instead will you go to Jon? I want to know how he is faring.”

“He hates being fussed over,” Arya said with a measured nod. It was a calculated move, both to see to Jon and to remove Arya from a situation she disliked. The process cut too close to countless occasions where she did not measure up to a lady’s standard.

“I don’t want him drunk or in a foul mood today,” Daenerys said. The low murmur of the harp paused.

“I imagine he’ll say the same for you,” Sansa said, in a jesting tone.

“True enough,” Daenerys said, setting aside her chalice, “water, for now please.”

Now clean, Daenerys was rousted from her bath. Missandei fetched silk slippers, along with a heavier woolen dressing gown to ward off the chill from her skin. They retraced their steps to the king’s chambers, dogged by the ever-watchful Rakharo and Grey Worm. A tall slender woman with the warm brown skin of a Summer Islander waited with her hands folded, gowned in shimmering gold silk.

“Chataya, thank you for coming,” Daenerys said, greeting her with a kiss of peace on the cheek.

“A pleasure to serve, Your Grace. The king shall be most pleased with our labors,” her voice held the melody of an Islander accent. Missandei’s had been schooled to a trace, but Chataya had not lost the music of it in her years in Westeros.

“I would be happy to assist you with styling your hair, Your Grace,” Missandei said, her face creased in a frown. There a trace of hurt in her face. Daenerys grasped her hand to soothe it. She bit the inside of her lip to quell her smile.

“Chataya assists in _removing_ hair as opposed to styling it, dear one. Ladies, perhaps I will summon you later once it is time to dress?” Lady Stark’s face flamed, along with Rosalin’s. Sansa blinked in half-baffled fascination.

“O—Of course, Your Grace. We wait at your pleasure. Come, Sansa,” Lady Stark said, ushering her women out as if her skirts were on fire.

Chataya’s work with warm wax and strips of linen was quick, though no less painful for its brevity. Daenerys stifled a cry at another yank. The worst was over, though. Her cunt was bare and throbbing. She fought down a rush of arousal at the thought of Jon’s reaction. It would drive him mad with lust. Missandei bustled about the apartments, gathering her tools to groom Daenerys’ hair.

“I should hope your king puts forth equal effort, Your Grace,” Chataya said, gold-amber eyes amused. Daenerys chuffed out a harsh laugh.

“Wouldn’t that be a sight? His lovely white skin plucked bald? No, I’m quite fond of his hair.”

“The king is a very comely man,” Chataya said, smearing wax thick and sticky as honey on her inner thigh.

“Yes,” Daenerys said with possessive pride. The thought buoyed her through the last of Chataya’s well-intentioned torture.

Once the Summer Islander took her leave, Daenerys set about directing the stewards and seamstresses and painters. The painter fawned over her features, exclaiming at the color of her eyes, the fullness of her lips. The painter was a tubby woman, sway-backed and gap-toothed, though her face was round and pleasant. Skin thin and throbbing, pained by the babe kicking hard, Daenerys found her patience wear thin.

“I am not toothless or poxied, why must I endure paint and powder like a prostitute?” she snarled.

“No, no, Your Grace, you misunderstand! I only enhance your beauty, like polishing a diamond’s faucets,” the woman squeaked, painting brush poised like calligrapher’s.

“Go on, then,” Daenerys said with an impatient gesture. _I will wash it off if it displeases me._

The older woman had a light and dexterous touch, urging her to tilt her head this way and that as Missandei combed and braided her hair. Three braids from each side joined at her nape, woven with pearls and rubies. Tendrils fell in spirals to frame her face, the under layers falling in a soft wave to her waist.

“There, Your Grace,” the painter murmured. Her hands shook as she held up the gilt hand mirror.

Daenerys blinked at her reflection. A thin upward sweep of black along her upper lids made her eyes look larger, deeper. As she tilted her chin to catch the light, a subtle golden shimmer glittered on her lids and temples. A rich red rogue made her lips look ripe and set off her white, even teeth.

“Are—are you pleased, Your Grace?”

“Yes. Yes, I am,” she said, dismissing the woman with warm thanks.

At last, time to dress. Missandei rose and ushered in the Stark women. Their awestruck expressions told her what she wanted to know as to the effect of the paint and Missandei’s patient work with her hair. Daenerys preened.

“Do you think my lord husband will be pleased?” The Stark women dazzled despite their somber house colors.

“Yes and no, Your Grace,” Arya said from the rear of the group. A faint smirk curled her long vulpine mouth.

“I think he will be drooling out of his head when he catches sight of you . . . but then every other man in the room will be too,” she said. Daenerys laughed, echoed by her women.

“That is a good reaction, then!”

Daenerys urged them into her chambers with a gesture.

“How is he?” Daenerys asked Arya in a low voice. Arya looked relaxed, as relaxed as one of her skills and experience could be, her smile easy.

“He and Robb are arguing baby names of all things. All is well, Your Grace,” she said. Daenerys cut a glance to Rosalin, the swell of her belly slight against the rustling finery of her grey silk dress.

“Yes, all is well,” Daenerys said. 

Sansa and Missandei helped her into linen smallclothes. Stays were tightened loosely. Her seamstress despaired at the gown’s silhouette being ruined by the bulge of her belly. One fire-hot glare from Daenerys was enough to stifle any further grumbling.

The gown itself was gorgeous thing of iridescent scarlet silk embroidered with black dragons in exquisite detail, edged with silver. The dress fastened at each shoulder with blued-silver dragon brooches. The neckline plunged over her breasts, gathered at a high waist. Crimson and ebony beading decorated the waist line and cupped her hips in curls to mimic fire. Cloth of silver and red brocade formed a drape down either side, crimped skirts of crimson silk beneath. Heeled doeskin slippers gave her a slight elevation. Blued silver torqs in the shape of sinuous dragons snaked up both bare arms. A choker of pearls and rubies rested at her throat. The Stark ring shone on her thumb, a lone sapphire sparkle amidst the colors of her house.

Lady Stark laid her resplendent cloak about her shoulders. It was a coronation, not a wedding, so she wore a cloak of houses Stark and Targaryen to match Jon’s. The garment was heavy and hot; its trailing edge would make movement ponderous.

“Ready at last,” Daenerys said, a sidelong glance finding her women fluttery and misty-eyed.

Daenerys swallowed a knot of emotion the rose in her throat. Today was a realization of a lifetime of dreaming. Daenerys blinked away tears, afraid to smudge her paint. She released a shaking breath, gathering her composure. Outside the bells began their ponderous toll, a loud, mournful pealing.

“The throne room, ladies,” Daenerys said. At last. At _last_ , it was time.

The throne room of the Red Keep was decorated for the occasion. Crowded with lords and ladies, redolent with the scents of perfume, glittering with sunlight and gold. The windows were thrown open to allow in the cool morning air. It was a hint of relief, the weight of her cloak and the press of so many bodies made sweat slick her body.

The columns were decorated with the swords of her fallen enemies, an echo to her ancestors Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys. The dull roar of talk quieted at her entrance, men and women jostling for the best place along the flower-strewn aisle. White and blue rose petals, each step releasing their crushed perfume. Daenerys met the gaze of each of her allies and soldiers present, in recognition and respect. Ahead loomed the Iron Throne, that yearned-for seat of her fathers, seated in its glittering, barbarous glory.

More beautiful than that sight—than any other—was Jon. He stood somber and regal in his black and grey. Black boots polished to a mirror shine, fitted black suede trousers, a square-shouldered fitted grey tunic. On the right breast, a white wolf snarled outward, on the left a white dragon, trimmed in silver. She liked the image of the wolf and dragon back to back, partners and equals. Her mouth also watered at how crisp and fitted the clothing lay against his taut body. A trailing cloak, a twin to the one she wore draped his broad shoulders. Beneath the drape of his cloak, she glimpsed his own stamped leather sword belt and Longclaw at his side. His beard was trimmed neat, the upper layers of his unruly hair tied away from his face.

Gods, her bones turned to water. Heat slipped into her blood. She yearned to be alone in their chambers. Sable eyes met hers and she saw her awe and desire reflected. Daenerys remembered her mincing, measured stride when she wanted to gallop up the aisle to him. At last, she joined him on the dais. The touch of his hand was a hot, sweet jolt. How far they had come from would-be conqueror and captive. _My Jon, my love_. Jon’s thumb stroked her knuckles, his eyes swimming with emotion.

“Greetings and welcome, lords and ladies of Westeros!” Her Hand’s voice rang through the hall. Tyrion’s scarred face bore a blinding smile.

“War has torn our country asunder for too many years. So much lost in blood and madness. It is with a light heart that I greet this day. For today, we crown a new queen and king of Westeros. Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, and her husband, King Jon, born Jaehaerys, of Houses Stark and Targaryen.”

Jon caught her eye and gave his version of a wink, both eyes closing in a focused blink. The heart-melting sight never failed to make her smile. She bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep her appropriately solemn expression. She squeezed his hand, fighting the urge to pull a face at him to make him laugh.

The soft murmur of chanting swelled, a procession of the Seven’s faithful, septons, septas and silent sisters marched down the aisle, swinging incense censers. Soft clouds of blue, gauzy smoke wreathed around them. At their heels were hermits and wood witches waving weirwood staffs and fresh blood-red weirwood leaves. Brandon Stark wheeled down the aisle in his chair amongst them, expression smooth and blue eyes as deep as the ocean. He met her gaze, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck rose. _Such weariness and wisdom in those eyes._

Representatives from both great religions of Westeros gathered on either side of the dais. The High Septon and senior hermit approached bearing a weirwood platter holding their crowns. The Usurper had destroyed or remade the crowns of her forefathers, so the two of them had commissioned new ones forged. Jon’s was a black iron band stamped with runes of the First Men crowned with three iron spikes, curled at the base of each spike was rose of blued silver. Daenerys was almost its twin, a thinner band of blued silver, crowned with three spikes of black iron, white gold, and aged copper. Her roses were of black iron. Each leader took the lower step of the dais and addressed the crowd with speeches of hope and glory.    

In planning their coronation, she and Jon had consulted dozens of historians, maesters, and religious leaders regarding the ceremony. Theirs would be unique amongst the kings and queens of their dynasty. No septon, Hand, or maester would crown them.

A hush fell over the room, save for the occasional shuffle or cough. Two children tottled down the aisle hand in hand with their nurse. The boy—Aaryn—was a farmer’s son from the North, blue eyes wide and pink-cheeked. The girl—Alys—was a minor baron’s daughter from the Dornish Marches, dark of hair and eye. Highborn and low, north and south, youth and the hope of the future.

Facing the gathered assembly with the Iron Throne at her back, Daenerys bent to one knee. The stone was achingly cold through the thin layer of her dress. Aaryn, his lip fixed between his teeth, carried her crown with frowning concentration. As he approached, Daenerys offered a sly wink. That coaxed a wobbly smile and he set the crown on her head with exaggerated care. It was a cold, heavy press around her head. A purposeful choice. Designed to remind her of what the crown had cost her, what it meant. _May it never rest easily._

Jon knelt at her side, reaching for her hand hidden beneath the drape of their cloaks. Alys took up Jon’s crown and stepped carefully towards them. Her tiny hands shook as she set the crown on his head, a bit crooked. Knowing what store men put in coronation omens, Jon righted the crown with a subtle tilt of his head. Jon mouthed the words: _‘Well done_ ’ to Alys. The girl offered a bashful smile and skittered back to her nurse.

As one, she and Jon rose, hands linked. In the same moment, every man and woman in the room fell to their knees.

“Hail Daenerys Stormborn, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains!” Tyrion said in a ringing voice.

“ _Hail Daenerys!”_

“Hail Jon, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, the White Wolf!”

“ _Hail Jon!”_

The cries reverberated throughout the hall, ringing in her ears. _I must remember this._ Until her dying day, she mustn’t forget. Essosi and Westerosi alike, united in peace. The scent of roses, and spring sunshine, Jon’s shining sable eyes and the warm grip of his hand. Daenerys looked into Jon’s eyes as her heart brimmed and overflowed.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Comments appreciated! This fic is a hybrid of book and show components.


End file.
